


Summer Storm

by RosalieMor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Porn With Plot, Ron Weasley Bashing, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalieMor/pseuds/RosalieMor
Summary: When all witches and wizards over seventeen are ordered to get married and help the magical world recover from the losses of war, the group of friends falls into chaos and confusion. Can teenage romance be a viable basis for a real, adult marriage? Can true love blossom from a strong friendship? Story will ultimately be Draco/Hermione and Harry/Ginny.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	1. The Burrow

Hermione Granger  
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England  
June 1999

Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat frozen for a moment, listening for movement. It was a still and moonless June night at The Burrow, not even a breeze rustling leaves in the pitch black garden. But Hermione was restless. It had only been three nights since she'd come here from Hogwarts, her seventh and final year, to join Ron and Harry. The boys hadn't gone back with her, as they'd accepted Kingsley Shacklebolt's offer to instate them as Aurors at the end of the war, NEWTs be damned, to help round up remaining Death Eaters. Hermione had stayed at The Burrow with them during school holidays, and now after graduation, it seemed the logical place to go. But for some inexplicable reason, The Burrow no longer felt like home.

Her bare feet were nearly silent as she crept down the stairs, but she cast muffliato anyway, to cover the creaking of the floorboards. Everyone in the house was sleeping now, even Molly Weasley, who often stayed up late these days knitting tiny socks and jumpers for her first grandchild, Bill and Fleur's baby, who would be arriving soon. Although the matriarch of the family didn't show any outward effects of the war, the death of her son, or her legendary battle with Bellatrix, Hermione could see the emotional scars it left in the way Molly threw her whole being into her remaining children - Harry and Hermione included. Every day at The Burrow was nonstop cooking, cleaning, hugs and affection. Not that Hermione didn't appreciate it, especially in light of losing her own parents to the irreversible obliviate she'd done to protect them during the war, but she had always been a little grateful to return to the quiet echos of the half-empty Hogwarts castle after the noisy and loving holidays at The Burrow.

No more Hogwarts now, Hermione thought sadly as she stepped out the back door into the silent garden. It was an accomplished, necessary kind of sadness, though. She was almost 20 years old, after all. It was time to leave behind the comforting walls of the castle, her home away from home, and join the adult wizarding world. Her feet crunched on the gravel of the garden path as Hermione wandered between the bushes and trees. The Burrow's garden was less like a lawn and more like a maze of various plants, garden beds, benches and long-abandoned makeshift quidditch pitches. Cozy as it all was, Hermione felt the draw to get her own place, a quiet refuge, like this garden was right now. Lately she'd been daydreaming of an elegant and modern flat in London. Close to the Ministry, Diagon Alley, and the nice muggle places, as well.

"Hermione?" A low whisper came from a nearby bench. She swiveled to face the shadowy voice, drawing her wand upwards with a quick, subconscious muscle memory. The shadow's spectacled eyes widened as they faced her wand-point, and she recognized the speaker, finally.

"Harry, ugh, sorry. You scared me!" She lowered her wand and pocketed it, joining her best friend on the bench. She placed a hand on Harry's arm in apology. "Can't sleep?"

Harry shook his head. "I didn't want to keep Ginny awake. She has tryouts with the Harpies tomorrow."

Hermione and Harry had an odd arrangement these days at The Burrow. To the Weasleys, it seemed that Hermione and Ginny shared her small bedroom on the top floor, and Harry and Ron shared a room on the floor below. Each night, however, the two friends crept in their pajamas to trade rooms, passing each other with a goodnight nod on the staircase. In a way, Hermione envied Harry and Ginny's relationship. They hadn't bothered with the long distance dating bit while Ginny finished her seventh year at Hogwarts with Hermione, but that seemed to have made holidays all the sweeter, with many quiet moments of tender understanding between the pair. Ginny had dated a bit here and there, and Harry had been swamped with Auror work, but they'd written to each other religiously, and Hermione was excited to now see the romance blossom again between two of her best friends.

She and Ron had, maybe regrettably, taken the opposite track. They'd 'dated' during the school year, mostly weekends in Hogsmeade spent with her studying and Ron restless, pacing the floor of the Three Broomsticks and drinking his weight in Butterbeer. Not being one for love letters or romantic gestures, Ron had only written to arrange their next date, or make plans for holidays, which Hermione reminded herself was exactly the sort of practicality she wanted in a relationship. Ron was her first love, and her best friend. They didn't need the sticky sweetness and heartfelt longing that other couples professed. They'd won a war together, for goodness sake. He knew her inside and out.

A whisper of a breeze blew through the garden, and Hermione thought of her boyfriend, sleeping soundly in their warm, quilt-covered bed upstairs. His tall frame always looked comical in his childhood bed, stretching from his pillow all the way down to the footboard, leaving just enough room beside him for Hermione to snuggle in, squashed against his lanky body. Usually, it felt like heaven, wrapped tight in his strong arms, but tonight it had felt a bit suffocating as her mind tumbled with post-graduation plans, career paths, interviews, and London flats.

"Harry, if she gets the position on the Harpies, do you think you'll move? To be closer to Wales?"

Her friend was quiet for a moment, running a hand anxiously through his thick black hair.

"We've been avoiding the subject, to be honest. She was so focused on NEWTs, and then tryouts straight away, and every time I try to bring up the future, she waves me off. I actually - I wanted to ask you…"

Hermione tried to meet his eye, though it was hard in the pitch black. Somewhere in the distance, a cat meowed plaintively.

"I know Ginny was dating here and there at Hogwarts. But was there anyone… really special for her? She's been a little… different. Since you all came back, I mean."

Hermione considered her friend and long-time roommate sleeping upstairs. Ginny Weasley, quidditch star and model Gryffindor, with her tiny frame concealing a huge inner strength and fire that her close friends and loved ones admired greatly. She had delicate but defined features that flattered her small oval face, dominated by her wide, golden brown eyes. The boys at Hogwarts may have been a little intimidated by her, especially after the war, when Ginny was lauded as not just a beauty, but a hero and a leader in bringing down Voldemort. Plus, she was Harry Potter's girl, and who wanted to piss off an Auror? A few courageous boys had made advances, usually cheered on by stomachs full of butterbeer at the pub, and Ginny had enjoyed her share of tipsy kisses and short-lived trysts in the Room of Requirement. But Hermione couldn't think of any boys who stood out, anyone she'd talked about in a loving way. It had always been Harry, in all the years they'd been friends. The only person to ever make Ginny speechless, the only one who could match her independence and determination, who could make her blush and inspire her at the same time.

"No, not that I know of. I'm sure she's just nervous about tryouts. Starting a career and all that." Hermione laid her head gently sideways on his shoulder. "Like all of us."

Harry put an arm around her. It was a comforting, friendly gesture, and she wondered if this was what it was like to have a brother. For all the familial chaos of The Burrow, Hermione was never especially close with the older Weasley boys. Or maybe Ron had warned them all off from putting their hands on her. But her boyfriend knew better than to get his knickers in a twist about Harry. It had been a sore spot for a while, but Hermione had told him in no uncertain terms that if she was going to be his girlfriend, Ron had to quit with the barbed and jealous comments about her friendship with Harry.

"When is your ministry interview?" Harry asked, rubbing a thumb against her shoulder.

"Tuesday," Hermione sighed wistfully. She was relatively sure she'd get the job with Magical Law Enforcement, after all, her reputation preceded her. But being Hermione, she couldn't help but prepare - reading tome after tome of policies, reports, meeting notes. Ron had scolded her for keeping her nose in books instead of celebrating her freedom from school.

"I'm sure you'll get it," Harry murmured. "And if not, I'll always hire you as a Auror. You'd be brilliant."

There was a quiet moment. Hermione knew both boys had been disappointed that she didn't join them as an Auror after the war, keeping their trio intact. But fighting dark wizards wasn't her dream, it was theirs. Or at least, it was Harry's.

"I - Hermione, I -" her friend stammered a little, and she knew he was struggling to bring something up. With the supernatural sense that only old, old friends have together, she knew what it was about.

"What's wrong with Ron?" She asked, and felt Harry's body jolt slightly beside her as she hit the subject head on.

"Well, nothing big. He's just… he hasn't been coming to work that much. You know our work has been slowing down, now that most of the Death Eaters are in Azkaban. It's a lot of paperwork at the moment, and some boring surveillance stuff… it seems like he's lost his motivation. I didn't want to worry you when you were doing NEWTs or anything, and I was going to try and wait til after your interview, but since you're here, I thought..."

Harry was talking softly but quickly, letting the words tumble out with a guilty tone, sorry to have to 'tattle' on his best friend in this way. But it wasn't news to Hermione. Her boyfriend was easily readable, his handsome face expressive and open, and it had never been hard for her to deduce what he was thinking. Right now, he was in a strange place in between contentment and boredom. After the war, Ron and Harry had needed the comfort of The Burrow, the support of the Weasley family, as they ventured out as adults with their new Auror positions. They'd stayed there with the understanding that it was temporary, and that once Hermione and Ginny finished at Hogwarts, they'd all reevaluate. But in the past few days following graduation, any time Hermione brought up moving, jobs, or adulthood, Ron had heaved a great sigh and rolled his big blue eyes at her. He only seemed happy when they were drinking and relaxing together, or kissing.

"He does seem a little… bored." Hermione had tried not to take it personally. She couldn't wait to start her adult life, her career, get their own place, and Ron was really raining on her parade. She wondered, if not for her, if he'd happily live at The Burrow forever, crammed unto his childhood bed, sporadically attending the job he wasn't even passionate about.

"It's not you," Harry said quickly, "I think it's just a little post-war letdown. No more action."

Hermione lifted her head and smiled up at him. "It's a strange point in our lives, that's for sure. Somehow the least exciting and the most exciting at the same time."

Another quiet moment. Hermione felt her eyes growing heavier in the cool stillness of the dark garden, soothed by Harry's rhythmic breathing, her racing thoughts calmed.

"You've basically been an adult since we were eleven, Hermione," her friend's deep voice continued quietly, his shoulder vibrating beneath her ear. "I hope Ron can keep up. You deserve someone who can share your goals. He just… I'm worried."

"I know, Harry. I am, too." She wanted to soothe her friend, reassure him that everything would be fine, but the words weren't coming to her. It was true, she and Ron were polar opposites in many ways. Their shared childhood experiences bound them together, but the future, being adults… it tore them apart.

She returned to her room then, slipping silently into the narrow bed where Ron was sprawled, snoring softly. His face was relaxed, lips slightly parted, bright red hair splayed on the pillow like a glowing halo. Hermione ran a hand gingerly over his bare pale shoulder, up to his jaw and his cheek, covered in coppery stubble. Pressing her forehead to his, she laid a gentle kiss on his lower lip. They'd have to address things in the morning, but for now, she wanted to savor the precious, private silence of their shared bed.

Ron woke halfway, not cracking his eyes open but recognizing her lips and scent. He wrapped a long arm around her waist and pulled her close, interlocking his legs with hers.

"Where'd you go?" he murmured sleepily, nuzzling his face into her neck.

"I couldn't sleep, I went to the garden." Hermione suppressed the urge to talk more, to confront him about what Harry had said. She was sure that Ron already knew what was on her mind, as it was the same subject that had been preoccupying her for months. Their future.

Ron just hummed happily against her, his hands roaming over her body. She turned over in his arms, torn between not being in the mood for physical affection and wanting to enjoy a blissful moment together before the fight she knew was to come. Pressing her body into his, she tried to focus on the pleasant feeling of his warm hands on her skin. It had been awkward at first, when they started dating after the war. They'd been friends for seven years, and to suddenly start kissing and exploring each other's bodies had been both exhilarating and terribly embarrassing. In fact, Hermione had almost called it quits in September, the night before she left on the train to Hogwarts, when Ron had pushed her limits in bed.

Even now, laying with her hips nestled in the curve of his, her breasts cupped in his hands, her neck being covered in sleepy kisses, there was a tiny twinge of awkwardness in the pit of her stomach. That nagging reminder that the boy behind her, the boy growing hard against her, was her childhood best friend. But she loved him, she told herself. That contented, satisfied feeling she got when they were together, that was love. It was meant to be, everyone said.

Ron's hands had journeyed their way down from her breasts to between her legs, rubbing insistently. He must be fully awake now, Hermione chuckled to herself, grasping his wrist to slow down his frantic pace. What he lacked in grace, her lover made up for in passion and enthusiasm, always needing to be reined in and refined with a guiding hand. She resisted the urge to stop him altogether, as she'd decided that letting him have his way tonight, within reason, would help her case tomorrow when she had to confront him about his plans for the future. Manipulative, maybe. But physical touch was his language, and she wanted to show him that her concerns were loving, not hateful.

He was pulling at her pajamas now, undressing her clumsily in their squashed-together position. With fingers crossed that he would remember her boundaries in his sleepy state, she kicked off the clothing and pressed herself against him with a small groan. Ron had freed himself from his own pajamas, now skin against skin as he scattered soft kisses against her shoulder and back. A hand was between her legs again, slowly prying them apart so that he could fit himself in between from behind.

"Ron," she murmured into the dark. It was a gentle warning.

"I know," he moaned, burying his face in her dark curls. "I won't." He sandwiched his cock between her thighs, grinding into her.

Their compromise. Over their year of dating, Hermione had slowly grown comfortable with making out, touching, being naked, even bringing him to orgasm. But the last frontier, losing her virginity, had been the point she would not concede. She blamed the muggle tradition of not having sex until marriage - it was pretty outdated now, only associated with religious families, but Ron didn't know that. In the wizarding world, there had never really been a stigma against pre-marital sex. There were charms against pregnancy and diseases that were easy enough to cast, as long as you were of age and could do magic outside Hogwarts. Hermione hadn't bothered learning them yet, as she knew that she was Ron's only partner, and he was hers.

Her lover's grinding was growing more frantic behind her, a trembling hand rubbing misshapen circles between her legs, his chest heaving and sweaty against her back. She felt guilty for restraining their physicality like this, knowing he would love nothing more than to slip inside of her and move in unison, joined together. But she just couldn't bring herself to allow it, for reasons that she couldn't quite put her finger on. 'Just not ready' didn't seem like a good enough excuse after a year of dating.

"Do you want me to… use my wand?" Ron grunted into her ear between gasping breaths. Their usual routine, lately, when things got hot and heavy. He clamped himself between her thighs and held a vibrating wand to her clit, bringing them both to completion without penetration. But tonight, she didn't feel like she could let go and orgasm even with the buzzing wand, so she shook her head no.

"I… love you… Hermione." He was moaning now, and Hermione wished she'd cast a muffliato on the room, but her wand was out of reach, and she wasn't going to stop him now.

"I love you, too, Ron." Her voice was soft, breathy. Encouraging him, she hoped. She clenched her thighs together, remembering with a smile that first, fumbling time that they'd discovered this method of almost-sex. Ron had rubbed against her, hoping she'd eventually give in, and got off unexpectedly. It was the one time she was thankful for thick thighs that could vise-grip his cock securely against her, providing, she hoped, the warmth and softness and pressure he craved.

He pressed feverishly into her, and she knew the end was soon. Despite her conflicting feelings about intimacy - and Ron himself, at the moment - she always felt a glowing sense of accomplishment when he came. For a moment, she wondered distractedly if she liked it so much because she loved him, or because it meant sex was over. But then again, it wasn't like she never enjoyed herself.

With a final thrust and groan, Ron pulsed with panting breaths, spilling his hot, sticky liquid between her legs. He fell back, a satisfied smile on his lips that mirrored her own. Within minutes, he was asleep again, leaving Hermione to fish her wand out of the covers and cast a scourgify on the mess he'd made. Kissing his freckled shoulder as his breathing turned from deep pants to soft snores, she whispered soundless secrets against his skin.

"I don't know what the morning brings for us, Ron Weasley. I just don't know."

The next day was a blur, with the whole Burrow in an excited uproar for Ginny's quidditch tryout. The youngest Weasley and only girl had always been in the spotlight within her family, prized and babied even when they had no money with which to spoil her. This made it all the more exciting when she'd been asked to try out for a professional quiddich team, her lifelong favorite. She had insisted that no one but her boyfriend come to watch the tryouts, because she knew that if one Weasley came, they'd all come, and embarrass her with their cheering. Hermione understood completely, although she wished she could be there to support her friend. And to support Harry, she thought, imagining him alone in the stands, wondering what his life would be like when his girlfriend became a professional athlete.

So far, Hermione hadn't found a good chance to speak with Ron. He'd awoken, naked, with a sly and gratified smile that she just couldn't bring herself to wipe off his face. Once Ginny's tryout was over, she told herself, then they'd know Harry and Ginny's future, and she could confront Ron about theirs. But it didn't exactly go to plan, because Harry returned to The Burrow alone, his bright green eyes flashing with anger as he slipped up the stairs, waving off the Weasley's questioning looks.

"She's coming later. If I tell you she's celebrating with the team, I suppose that gives away the result, but I don't know what else I'm supposed to say."

The crowd of redheads at the bottom of the stairs whooped and hugged, too elated for Ginny to worry about Harry's mood. But Hermione was never one to be waved off, and followed him up the stairs silently.

"Harry," she said gently, watching her friend slump onto Ginny's bed. "What happened?"

He shook his head, and Hermione wondered if the glowing in his green eyes was actually tears, rather than anger.

"I'm happy for her," he sighed, flopping back heavily to lay on the bed. "I need to get over myself."

"She wants to move to Wales?" Hermione guessed. The Holyhead Harpies were the best women's quidditch team in Britain, and she knew it was a dream come true for Ginny. But their practice grounds were remote, on an island in Northern Wales, and not connected to the Floo network. Today, Ginny and Harry had to fly for hours to get there from The Burrow, and even though she could apparate if needed now that she knew the place, Hermione knew that Ginny would want to live nearby. Being exhausted after a match and trying to apparate halfway across Britain was just asking to get splinched.

"Yes, and no." Harry sighed again, and Hermione scooted toward him on the bed, petting his hair in what she hoped was a soothing manner. She'd never been very good at soothing.

"She doesn't want to live together yet," her friend continued, a puzzled glare causing his eyebrows to buckle into each other. "Even though we already live together, basically. She said some of the other girls have a house on the island, and she wants to live there. At least for the first season. For… camaraderie. Supposedly."

"And you're not allowed to live with her there, I assume?"

"No. I told her I can't live at The Burrow forever, and she agreed. Told me I should look at flats in London, and we can see each other on weekends. But her matches will be on weekends, so… it's like she's making it impossible for us to be together on purpose, forcing my hand into breaking up. Not that we were ever official in the first place, she wouldn't allow that either."

He threw his hands up in frustration.

"What can I do, Hermione? I love her, but I want a girlfriend who I can be with. I've waited all year for her to finish school, thinking we could be together. I've been saving up money… I even looked at rings."

He moaned. Hermione cringed, knowing that a ring was probably the last thing on Ginny's mind. They'd grown close, especially in the last year, and she knew that her friend's whole focus was on her possible quidditch career and having fun being a seventeen year old. Not buying houses or Ministry jobs or, least of all, marriage. During heart-to-heart conversations in their dormitory, Ginny had told her that while she truly loved Harry, she was scared that he wanted to get too serious too soon, and that his position as the youngest Auror ever had forced him to grow up before he should have. Hermione hadn't voiced her opinion that vanquishing a dark Lord had forced them all to grow up before they should have. She envied Ginny's ability to set their traumatic past aside and savor her remaining teenage years.

"Just give her time, Harry," she said gently. "Remember, she's not even eighteen until August. You'll have decades together, if you give her the space she needs now and don't drive her away."

Even as she spoke, her words felt hypocritical. She was giving Ginny the consideration that she couldn't find within her for Ron, her own boyfriend. He was less than two years older, but Hermione had such different expectations for them. Or maybe it was because her happiness and future was only tied to the elder sibling.

As if he read her mind, Harry looked up at her through narrowed eyes. "And Ron?" he asked teasingly, "Are you going to give him time? He's going to be dismissed altogether if he keeps on like this, Hermione, it will be out of my hands."

Now it was Hermione's turn to sigh.

"It's different. Ginny just got a job, a job she's passionate about and has been wanting forever. She has a plan, even if it doesn't mesh with yours perfectly. Ron just… doesn't seem to care what happens. He's fine with living here, at his parents' house, and sharing his tiny bed forever. When I suggest moving out, he acts like I asked him to murder his mother."

Right on cue, she heard creaking footsteps outside the bedroom door, and Ron threw the door open, beaming.

"My sister is a PRO quidditch player! Can you believe that, Harry? Ginny's gonna be FAMOUS!"

Harry laughed darkly. "You're famous, mate."

Ron laughed and laid on the bed next to Hermione, grasping her hand.

"S'pose so," he said with a dreamy sort of grin, "I always forget."

Hermione clamped her lips together, refraining from chiding Ron. He would do well not to forget that, she thought, and not just for the self-confidence that being a war hero could lend him. He could use those connections, that admiration within the wizarding world, to find a job he loves.

"Ron," Harry said tentatively, still staring up at the ceiling, "You could try out, if you wanted?"

The redhead on her right chuckled heartily again. "What, for the Holyhead Harpies? Afraid I've got body parts that aren't allowed on that team, mate!"

"Not for the Harpies," Hermione snapped, then softened her tone as she felt Ron's muscles tense beside her. "For another team. You're quite good."

Ron glanced over at the others with a confused sideways look. "I was alright at Hogwarts. Passable… but the crowds made me barmy, I could never play pro. You know that."

A tense minute passed in which Ron seemed to process the implication of their suggestion.

"Is this about the job thing?" he asked suspiciously, dropping Hermione's hand from his. "I know everyone thinks I'm just an Auror because Harry is, but I'm actually fine doing it, I like it, so don't get any -"

"Ron, you're going to be sacked," Harry interrupted. "It's not a sure thing, but… Kingsley asked me to speak with you. See if you want to salvage it. You haven't come to the Ministry in days. Haven't filed any reports in weeks."

A beat of strained silence. "Well then, tell him not to sack me, huh?" Ron's voice was sharp-edged.

"So you'll work?" Hermione asked gently. She tried to interlance her fingers with his, but felt him bristle. Ron rose from the bed and paced the small bedroom.

"I do work. You all look down on me all the time and I'm sick of it. Hermione, you just graduated. I've been working for a YEAR! I'm happy with my home. I'm happy with my position. I don't need any big time promotions, or some posh London flat. We're nineteen, for Merlin's sake. All I need is a little spending money, nights out at the pub with my mates, a beautiful girlfriend to come home to… I don't know why the two of you can't be happy with that."

When Harry and Hermione didn't respond to his rant, Ron continued. "Maybe Kingsley should sack me. Maybe I deserve some time off. You lot realize we went straight from a bloody WAR to these jobs, right? We didn't get the summer holiday before school started, like you, Hermione. Maybe this should be my summer holiday, then!"

"Adults don't get a summer holiday, Ron," Hermione spat, sitting upright and looking her boyfriend up and down. "You chose to go be an Auror instead of coming with me to finish seventh year. You said there was no way you could go back to being a child at school. Which kind of stung, you know that? And now I want to get our own place, interview for jobs, want you to GO to your job, period, and it's too much to ask?"

Her voice rung bright and sharp, maybe too harshly. She was used to bickering with Ron, it was nothing new. All three of them could predict what would unfold next - Ron would storm off in anger, everyone would take some time to calm down, Harry would go talk sense into Ron, and he would reluctantly apologize. But Hermione was growing tired of that routine, truth be told. Harry shouldn't have to play counselor. They weren't moody children anymore.

"If you want to move so badly, why are you staying here?" Ron asked her coldly, arms crossed over his chest. "You could go stay at Grimmauld Place, be close to your precious Ministry interview. It's not like we're SHAGGING or anything, at least not properly!"

Hermione jumped up to shush him, brows knitted together, but Ron was already gone with a crack of apparition. She could hear thuds and crashes from the room below them, Ron's bedroom. He'd apparated just a few feet away, for angry effect.

Ginny's bed creaked as Harry stood, putting a calming hand on Hermione's back.

"I know he said it out of anger, but it isn't the worst idea, actually. I'd stay at Grimmauld with you, if you want. Just… til you and Ron find a place. He'll come around."

She considered the prospect, nodding slowly in agreement. Grimmauld Place was a dour, unwelcoming house, but she'd grown accustomed to it in the last few years, and could certainly tolerate it for a week or two. It might prove a point to Ron that he couldn't yell and embarrass her, and then expect her to be waiting around for his apology.

It seemed telling that she didn't feel compelled to rush downstairs and try to make up. In fact, the feeling when she and Harry floo'ed to Grimmauld Place was… relief. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and for the first time since she left Hogwarts, Hermione felt sure she'd get a good night's sleep.

That night, after sending Harry back to fetch her trunk from The Burrow, the two of them sat in front of a fire and sipped tea while they worked. The quiet house had a sad feeling, but somehow also a calm coziness of two friends united in their melancholy.

"Do you think we're meant to be?" Hermione asked, pausing with her finger in the middle of page 692 of the Ministry's report on garden gnomes.

"Er… you and Ron?" Harry asked, a puzzled look on his face. Hermione nodded.

"I feel like we built our relationship up to be more than it actually is. Being in the war together, being best friends, it was like this big… tension. And once it became reality, it was just…"

Her voice trailed off. Harry put his quill and parchment down on the side table, taking his time to consider her question.

"It's a lot of pressure on a relationship, being in the public eye like we are. Plus everyone from school seeing you two circling each other for years. It might keep a relationship going… longer than it naturally would."

His words cut her, but she knew it was true. She and Ron were so incredibly different. They may have never gotten together, if they hadn't both been friends with Harry and gotten wrapped up in the war. Everyone kept telling her that it was meant to be, that Ron was her true love - hell, they even said that to each other. And she did love him, without a doubt. It just wasn't the way that she should love the man she was dating, and more like she should love a best friend.

As practical and logic-minded as she was, there had always been the part of Hermione that she didn't share with the boys, the part that had devoured Jane Austen, Shakespearian tragedies, and, later, muggle romance novels. Maybe she'd thought of Ron as her 'great love,' the best friend turned lover who knew her better than anyone in the world. And that made it hard to let go, to admit the truth, that they weren't a perfect match. After all, who could be her great love if not Ron? She'd waited so bloody long for him to realize how she felt about him.

"I don't know how to live without him," she admitted, leaning her head back against the sofa.

"You'll be brilliant," Harry said delicately, "You're Hermione Granger. You'll have an illustrious career and change the wizarding world forever, with or without him. And if it's without him, I have no doubt that someday in the future, some brave bloke will come along with enough guts to fall in love with you. He'd be a lucky man."

Harry patted Hermione's leg in a way that made her suddenly miss her father more than anything. Neither of them spoke again that night, acknowledging the immense decisions brewing that would change both of their lives - Harry's two best friends splitting up would affect him almost as much as it affected them. Ginny sent an owl from Holyhead, apologizing for her harshness with Harry that morning. Nothing from Ron.

In fact, it was days before Hermione heard anything from him. Her interview at the Ministry went well, although her interviewer may have been a little taken aback when Hermione had recited all 73 clauses of the International Wizarding Code of Secrecy. He'd given her the job immediately. Harry threw her a little celebration that night at Grimmauld Place, fetching a nice dinner from Diagon Alley and a bottle of champagne from the muggle shop down the street. But it had been days since that dinner, tranquil, lonely days of work and study for the two friends.

Friday night, Harry had just poured them each small glasses of firewhiskey when a frantic screech owl pummeled the kitchen window, making Hermione jump out of her seat. She fetched the letter from the little owl's leg, and read it silently, recognizing the scratchy, slanted handwriting at once.

Hermione,

Hope you're enjoying your grown up life with Harry. My family is pretty offended that you didn't even say goodbye to them before taking off for London. Don't bother coming back here. But you probably weren't going to, since you've always thought you were better than us. Sorry I told Harry we weren't really shagging. And sorry I couldn't be the bloody hero you wanted. - Ron

No congratulations on her new job, no final 'I love you.' But he had apologized a little, which even Harry admitted was more than they normally got without prompting. Somehow, this bitter, attention-seeking letter didn't upset Hermione, but instead provided a weird sort of closure, proving once and for all that she'd grown up beyond Ron's ability to cope. It was a sad surety, like a long-held suspicion being finally confirmed. A couple hours and a couple glasses of firewhiskey later, Hermione decided she needn't dignify that written tantrum with a response - he would surely figure out how she felt by her distinct lack of reply. She shooed away the screech owl who'd been hopping impatiently around the kitchen.

The next morning, sometime just before dawn, another letter arrived, this time scrawled even more carelessly. It must have been written late at night, she thought, after one of those longed-for 'pub hang outs.' With bleary eyes, she unfolded the parchment and read.

Mione - Im not even good enough for a reply? Whhy did you keep telling me I was your one true love if you didnt really belieeve it? Becuz love would not leave a bloke just fur getting sacked from his job. But I still do love you. Even. Thougg you wouldnt let me proper shag you. Mayybe I shold have known then… if i was it for u, we wood have dun it…

Then the ink seemed to turn into scribbles and gibberish, running off the page as if the quill had a mind of its own. No signature. Ron's pain and angst was glaring up at her from the awful letter, but so was his entitlement, his inability to take the blame, his rage. And possibly alcoholism, she thought dully, throwing the parchment to the floor and shooing the owl again. Poor thing, its wings must be tired, going back and forth from Devon to London all night.

Hermione turned over and tried to sleep again, but the pale summer sunlight was intruding through the velvet drapes and casting stripes of gold onto her bed and walls. All she could think about was her future - for so long, she'd imagined it with Ron. Their careers as intertwined as their schooling had been, little redheaded babies and holidays at The Burrow. Without him, what would it look like? As Harry had said, someday, a brave man will come along with the guts to love her. But if no one was brave enough to see past her reputation? She could see herself clinging to work as her life's love, empty and longing for romance on the inside. She'd attend her friends' weddings and weep for what could have been, if she hadn't been so harsh.

In the midst of her morose daydream, an owl's talon rapped on her window. The screech owl, back again? Maybe it was instructed to insist on a reply this time - owls could be rather persuasive, with their hooked beaks shoving the quill into your hand menacingly. But this owl was different, Hermione saw as she drew back the curtains again. A Ministry barn owl, tawny brown and powerful looking. Ah, it was just work business.

But as she read the wax-sealed scroll - twice over, to be sure she wasn't hallucinating - Hermione realized that this was far from business as usual.

The Ministry of Magic

hereby decrees

that in order to preserve our kind in the wake of devastating loss

all witches and wizards over the age of seventeen must be married and attempting to conceive a child by

September 1, 1999.

The Ministry of Magic recognizes that this may come as an unpleasant shock, however, if this action is not taken now, our Arithmancy experts have proven that our world could cease to exist within three generations. We must work together to rebuild our population. Please see page 4 of today's Daily Prophet for details about exceptions to the decree, proof of attempted conception, and other details.

Thank you for doing your part on our way to peaceful, strong recovery.

Kingsley Shacklebolt,

Minister of Magic

Hermione was out her bedroom door in a flash, thundering down the hall to Harry's room. He was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed with a disbelieving expression that must have matched hers. Although it was not in her usual repertoire to curse, Hermione couldn't help but throw the scroll at her feet and spit the words.

"What. The. Fuck!"


	2. Grimmauld Place

Harry Potter  
Grimmauld Place, London, England  
July 1999

It had been exactly four weeks since the Ministry's marriage edict was announced, and it seemed to Harry that the entire wizarding world was in a state of absolute bloody chaos. The people who already had partners were rushing to plan weddings, and those who didn't were rushing to find someone suitable before all the 'good' choices were taken. And here Harry sat, somewhere in between.

For the last month, Ginny had been distant with him, blaming her strenuous quidditch training schedule for her lack of writing. But he knew it was mostly because of their rows over the new marriage law, which Ginny adamantly refused to discuss any further than 'I'll find a way around it.' He knew her backup plan - to find someone willing to sign marriage papers without actually living as husband and wife. They both knew that if she married Harry, it would be for real, forever, and she insisted that neither of them were ready for that. But as a Ministry employee and constantly in the public eye, Harry couldn't ignore the law so easily. He had no earthly idea what he was going to do, come September.

"Could you also tell her I need a reply rather quickly, Hermione?" he pleaded one night as the two friends sat around the kitchen table covered in sheafs of parchment and ink pots.

His best friend sighed. She looked more frazzled than ever, even more distressed than she had been during exam weeks at school, which was saying something. Her dark brown curls were piled on top of her head like a ball of tangled gillyweed, and her wise coffee-colored eyes were ringed by light purple underneath, from stress and sleepless nights. Just before the edict, Hermione had been hired at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which had proved to be a much more demanding job than she'd expected, with the massive new set of laws imminent.

"I can try, Harry." She was brushing the feather end of a quill against her rounded cheek absentmindedly, thinking of how Ginny would react to her letter. Harry knew it wouldn't be great, but probably marginally better than if he owled her about it yet again.

"Sure, it's earlier than we'd wanted. But I always thought I'd marry her, and I thought she felt the same! I think she's in denial that this bloody law is real…" he was pacing the kitchen now, counting weeks on his fingers. "Eight weeks. That's all we have left. Eight! I'd like to plan something nice for her, but if she leaves us with a week to plan, it's not going to be very -"

Harry was interrupted by Hermione grabbing his shoulders to put a stop to his pacing.

"At least Ginny hasn't sent you letters while completely plastered, saying she never wants to see you again," she said with a tight, sarcastic smile. Harry softened, remembering his friend's conundrum. She and Ron had split with a spiteful row just before the announcement.

"You know Ron would take you back in a heartbeat if you asked. He's still nutty for you." Harry held his friend's hand, her thin, ink-stained fingers intertwined with his. "I know it's not ideal. But he's not all bad. I've heard he's doing really well in his new position."

Not long after the breakup, Ron had been officially sacked from his job as an Auror, but Harry heard through the grapevine that he'd taken a low-level job in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Harry missed his red headed friend, although he'd made the choice to support Hermione through their conflict, thereby alienating Ron. And even though he wished more than anything that the three of them could be close again like the old days, he had to acknowledge that Hermione and Ron just weren't a perfect couple. Her expectations were incredibly high, and his were… not. Ron wanted a simple, happy life, and Hermione wanted to change the world. Neither friend was wrong, really. But it sure would make it hard to remain a peaceful trio.

He watched over her shoulder as Hermione finished her letter to Ginny and sent it off to Holyhead with an owl. They said goodnight and went to bed, but Harry laid awake, staring at the musty velvet drapes of Grimmauld Place and thinking of his would-be-girlfriend. Ginny was a spitfire, that was one of the things he loved about her. But she had to know that, as an Auror, Harry didn't exactly have the option to flout the new law, or leave the country in secret. He wondered if it would motivate her to know about the stacks of letters he'd received from other women, asking if he was available or interested. As a war hero and a young wizard with decently good looks and a successful career, he had offers arriving every day from witches of all ages. Old classmates, current coworkers, witches he'd never even heard of… it had felt manipulative to mention it to Ginny, so he'd left that fact out of his letters, but now, in the stuffy stillness of his bedroom, his mind wandered.

What would life be like if he actually considered all those letters, and picked someone? Ginny - and Ron - might never forgive him. But at the same time, it was her fault they weren't married yet; Harry was ready. Ginny was the one being stubborn, insisting that marriage wasn't compatible with her pro quidditch career or her plan to enjoy being seventeen. But that hadn't seemed to stop Romilda Vane, who was a year younger than Ginny, and not even subject to the marriage law yet. She'd sent Harry loads of owls asking him to consider her, probably distressed that he'd soon be off the market permanently.

With a guilty twinge, Harry imagined Romilda in his mind's eye. Her dark eyelashes batting at him, her school robes falling open to reveal inches of thigh below her skirt… he shook his head. He was almost nineteen, couldn't go around fantasizing about schoolgirls. It had been too long since he'd shared Ginny's bed, that's all. Lack of sex was making him batty. Maybe on the weekend he could fly to Holyhead and visit, rent a room somewhere for him and Ginny to have a little getaway. If she wasn't busy, that is.

As he began to doze off, Harry's thoughts drifted involuntarily to other witches. Romilda's smooth, dark thighs, Cho Chang's silky black hair, that one witch from the Department of Mysteries who wore tight robes and had a very round bum…

A knock at the door snapped Harry out of his half-dream state, and he hurriedly tried to conceal his erection with his bed covers as Hermione entered his room without waiting for an answer. She was sniffling and smelled of firewhiskey, which was unlike her.

"Harry," she whispered, perching on the side of his bed, "Are you awake?"

"Err…" he scooted away a bit and sat up gingerly, his arousal apparently not getting the memo that his best friend had arrived and needed comforting of some sort. "Yeah, Hermione. I'm awake. What's up?"

She sniffled again, and fell back dramatically so that her head was nearly in his lap, but Harry made an evasive scoot at the last second and Hermione landed with a fwump on the pillowy mattress.

"Oh, Harry, I just don't know what to do. I know I have to get married, and I can't leave it until August, because I'm in the bloody department that's enforcing this law! I have to be a good example! But I just don't think I can marry Ron, he's not right for me, not to spend my whole life with…"

Hermione reached above her head and freed her tangle of curls from their haphazard bun, combing through them with her fingers and massaging her scalp in an attempt to calm down. The action sent a waft of sweet shampoo scent into Harry's nostrils, to which his body reacted instinctively, despite his brain yelling, NO. He patted his friend's arm timidly, hoping she hadn't seen the fleeting look of entranced bliss that he knew had crossed his face.

"There's still time, Hermione," he said, hoping to console her enough that she could leave, and he could take care of his traitorous erection that didn't seem to be wavering. "It's only the beginning of July. We can go out soon, maybe down to the Leaky Cauldron, try and meet some new people?"

Hermione moaned softly, writhing a little on the bed, which did nothing to help his situation.

"Harry, I can't just marry someone new, either! I won't have time to get to know them! What if we get married and then I find out he's got like… a gambling problem, or Death Eater parents, or... some weird kink that I can't handle?" She slapped a hand to her forehead, thinking of all the ways in which a stranger could be even worse than the relationship she'd just left. Then she narrowed her shrewd, dark eyes and looked up at him.

"What if we did the thing that Ginny wants to do?"

Of course, all Harry could think of was sex, and he looked bewildered. He worked hard not to allow his eyes to roam away from Hermione's face, despite her pyjama-clad body stretched over the edge of his bed, a sliver of taut stomach skin showing below her shirt.

"The - the thing?"

She rolled over and onto the bed facing Harry, forcing him to shift again to avoid touching.

"You know. Sign marriage papers as friends. That way, when Ginny is ready to settle down in a few years, we can divorce and you can be with her. In the meantime, we'd be following the law. And the public would hardly be surprised, after all the Prophet articles about the two of us…"

"That would be a great idea, Hermione, except…" Harry sat up straighter, slightly dumbfounded by her suggestion. "We have to sign affidavits that we're actively trying to conceive the next generation of witches and wizards. And you know better than anyone how hard that will be to fake."

She considered his revelation with a huff, her warm alcohol breath hitting Harry like a spritz of love potion to the face. Go, please, just go… he pleaded wordlessly. Hermione's beauty always seemed amplified when she drank, because it cracked her composed exterior. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair wild, her dark eyes sparkled. He knew his best friend was pretty, but normally he was able to sort of sublimate it, as she was like a sister to him, and in a relationship with Ron. Tonight was proving harder. In many ways.

"We're going to send enchanted forms that won't allow you to lie," Hermione sighed. "If I designed them to have a flaw that allowed you and me to cheat, I wouldn't really be doing my job, I suppose."

She took Harry's hand in hers, and studied them, as if evaluating how they looked together. Another guilt-ridden surge of blood rushed to his groin; he quickly adjusted the covers with his free hand to distract from the visible twitch between his legs.

"It wouldn't be the worst thing," Hermione whispered softly. "We'd only have to do it once in order for it not to be a lie. I know you're not… attracted to me… in that way. But we could just take a bunch of shots and get it over with."

His heart softened at her apprehensive, blushing expression, although the rest of his body did not.

"Hermione," he said softly, drawing her closer to him and losing a bit of his trepidation about having her in his bed. "You deserve much more than 'getting it over with.' You're gorgeous, even as your friend I think so. And brilliant, and kind, and loyal, and brave… No man in his right mind would need to be drunk to sleep with you."

She leaned against his shoulder, and he cringed slightly, knowing that just a slight shift of her leg and she'd feel just how gorgeous his hormone-fueled body actually found her. He was shirtless, as it was a stuffy, warm summer night, and could feel every nerve ending buzzing in the skin that lay flush against her warm cheek. He did love Hermione, in their own way, and would be lying if he said he never thought of her sexually at all. Marriage was a different prospect altogether, but Harry's stomach fluttered a little at the thought of marrying her. They could buy the modern flat in London they both dreamed of. Kiss her every morning as she made them coffee before going to work. Take her to bed every night, his hands buried in her curls and his cock buried in…

"If it gets to be August and we're both not married, will you consider it?" Hermione looked up at him with fluttering lashes and a meek smile that seemed out of character for his normally bold friend. She was scared, he could tell. Scared that she would end up settling, rushed by the Ministry and her own sense of duty, and have a miserable life because of it. Harry considered her proposition, trying not to focus on the sexual aspects, although his disobedient libido made it difficult. Hermione was his best friend, and they already knew they worked well together and could live together harmoniously. She was tidy, helpful, a decent cook, and knew Harry better than he knew himself, most days. Although he didn't (usually…) feel the passion and desire for her that he did for Ginny, it didn't take a genius to see that he and Hermione would make a functional couple, at the very least. And now, looking down at her soft, dark eyes as she laid on his bare shoulder, he felt sure that it could be much more - it could be real.

No, he chided himself, you're holding out for Ginny. She's your true love. Hermione is your friend. But even as he silently scolded, his boundaries were blurring and softening. Ginny didn't want to marry him, and Hermione, on some level, did. Out of all the witches asking him to marry them, Hermione was the obvious, far and away best choice. The thing he remained torn about was whether or not to agree to marry her 'as friends,' to circumvent the edict. What he'd said was true - she deserved more than a sham marriage. But could he give her that?

Without realizing, he'd reached up and stroked Hermione's soft jawline as she leaned into him. He knew she was here as a friend, and any hint of anything beyond that seemed a huge risk. The peaceful, platonic routine they'd fallen into here would be destroyed if he made a mistake tonight. But… she'd come in smelling of firewhiskey and sweet shampoo, and had flopped onto his bed… And now she was cuddled up against him in their pyjamas, looking up at him with those eyes as he held her face tenderly without even meaning to…

Harry leaned down and kissed her, the rush of thoughts in his mind silenced at once. All he could think of was how soft her lips were, and how sweetly they responded to his, opening and closing with just a whisper of pressure. Just enough to know that she wasn't pulling away. The twisting in his stomach rose to his throat with nervousness, and his hard-on throbbed again, reminding him that if that inflamed and irksome body part had its way, he wouldn't be stopping with just a gentle kiss.

But that throb was enough to remind him of what was at stake. Hermione had come here tonight as a friend, afraid and downhearted, looking for reassurance - not a romp in the sheets. He knew her motives had been innocent, if a little alcohol-induced. It wouldn't be fair to press his luck and jeopardize their friendship just because the idea of Romilda Vane's damned legs had given him a boner.

Their lips parted, and Hermione stared up at him, eyes full of questions.

"I'm sorry," Harry breathed, squinting his eyes with pained regret.

"It's okay, I just… wasn't expecting that." She sat up, away from his shoulder. He cringed inwardly, hoping against hope that she'd had enough to drink tonight that these events might seem fuzzy come morning.

"You were asking me to get married," he countered, his voice shaky. "I thought I should see… I mean… Maybe we could, and have it not be - that is - not just friends. Maybe. Someday." He added the last word on quickly, seeing her eyebrows raise as he spoke. "I just mean, we could learn. With time. I already love you, a lot. Maybe we could just… add to that. Build on it."

The thick, warm air seemed suddenly stifling. Harry knew his words were clumsy - in his defense, there was a good amount of blood trapped elsewhere in his body and not making it to his brain.

"And Ginny?" Hermione asked, with narrowed eyes. She didn't seem angry, exactly. Curious, skeptical maybe.

Harry ran a hand through his thick, disheveled hair. Ginny. One of Hermione's best friends and the one girl he'd imagined himself marrying for the last two years, or more. How had he thought this friendship-turned-romance was supposed to work out, again?

"If she really goes off and marries some bloke just because he agrees to a platonic marriage… it will be hard not to take that personally. What's to stop us from signing the papers and then continuing to live apart, exactly the way we are now? We wouldn't even have to lie on the affidavit, since we're already…"

He left off, his rant building to a hurt tone that he knew was a broken record for Hermione, his current sounding board for all things Ginny related.

"So you wouldn't wait for her, if she did that? You know she thinks if she marries you, it puts an immense amount of pressure on your relationship, and she's afraid you'd hold it over her head. Convince her to settle down, get a place with you, maybe have babies."

Harry shook his head. To Ginny those were all bad things. Things that needed to wait at least three to five years, she'd said. But for him, it sounded amazing. A real family. A loving home. Stability.

"I can't wait for her, if she does that. It means she doesn't trust me. If we get married, I can wait. As long as we have a plan, a promise to each other. But sometimes I feel like she wants to keep her options open. Which is… a harsh blow."

Hermione smiled in a sideways, mischievous way.

"But you also just kissed me, Harry Potter. If Ginny ever found out, that would be a harsh blow, and I mean literally."

They both chuckled, but Harry felt his erection wilt a little at the thought. He'd been practically begging Ginny to marry him for weeks, if Hermione were to tell her about tonight, he could only imagine the Howler he'd get.

"Please, can we just forget that I did that?" he asked, sinking down beneath his covers again. "Call it an experiment, in the name of science. I had to see if we had chemistry, before I agreed to your proposal."

Hermione laughed as she rose from the bed and stood near his head. She cocked her head and looked at him curiously for a moment, and Harry wondered if she'd spotted the lump in the covers between his legs - he'd pretty much given up trying to hide it. But then she leaned down and kissed him, just as gentle as before. Her lips were like silk rushing over him, and slightly spicy with Firewhiskey.

She pulled away with that same playful smile. "And? Do we?"

Harry groaned, knowing that he was being put on the spot.

"You have a deal, Hermione. Let's do… mid August. The fifteenth. If we're both single on that day, we'll get married."

A broad smile, then, and Harry knew that just having a backup plan was a huge comfort to her type-A brain. She kissed him on the cheek, and left, with a wake of her scent still swirling around him.

With not a moment's hesitation, he reached down and gripped his hard-on, a crashing wave of relief flooding over him at finally being able to appease the throbbing. With a nagging shame prickling in his stomach, Harry stroked himself rapidly, a vivid image of Hermione in his mind's eye. Her thin pyjama shirt, that teasing stretch of tanned stomach skin, her lips like the smoothest, sweetest whipped dessert against his own.

He thought of all the times he'd missed out on admiring her body, because he'd thought of her as off-limits - in their swimming costumes at the seaside last summer, sharing a tent with her while camping during the Horcrux hunt, spending every evening with her here at Grimmauld, eating and laughing and working side by side. It was funny how horniness could bring up feelings you'd never have acknowledged in the light of day, he thought, trying in vain to pry his mind away from Hermione.

In the end, he gave up the struggle and relented to the inevitable fantasy - throwing his best friend down on the bed and kissing her with all the passionate fire that she deserved in a husband. Undressing her, touching her, and finally, as he thrust forcefully into his own fist, penetrating her. He came, grunting with effort, at the thought of finishing inside her.

Just for the un-fakeable affidavit, he reminded himself, as the post-orgasmic clarity swept over him. But he was spent, both mentally and physically exhausted, and lacked the desire or the energy to self-analyze. It was just an innocent fantasy.

The following days weren't as awkward as he'd feared. Hermione's frazzled energy seemed calmed by their agreement, and she didn't mention the kiss at all. KissES, Harry remembered. They were even now, because she kissed him, too.

Ginny had sent an owl back, responding to Hermione. The original letter had been carefully crafted to include lots of updates, gossip, and off-topic chatter, with mentions of Harry and marriage only thrown casually in between. But Ginny was as cynical as she was bright, and saw right through their scheme.

Hermione - and Harry, because I know who is actually behind this -

Off-season practice is going well, thanks for asking. I love living at the team house, it's like a happier and less stressful version of the Hogwarts' dormitory. Everyone has been really nice and welcoming. I can't wait for you both to come see our first public match of the season in August.

I still don't think it's a good idea to get married. For any of us. I know you both work for the Ministry now, but can you really stand behind this law like it makes any kind of sense? Forcing teenagers to get married and have children won't rebuild our world, it will only damage it further. None of us are ready. I know that both of you, and my brother, have it in you to rebel against unfair practices. You're the ones who taught me that! So join me in objecting. Marry someone on paper, if you have to. But don't give in to their barmy idea that we need to settle down and start popping out babies.

Love you both.

Ginny

The two exchanged a somber glance over the parchment. Where had their rebellious spirits gone, Harry wondered. He respected Ginny's stance on the law, and knew that he should feel the same outrage, but he just… didn't. Maybe because he'd spoken with Kingsley personally, heard his reasoning, and trusted him. Maybe because settling down and having babies was actually an idea that appealed to him. Or maybe he'd just run out of fight, drained by nearly nineteen years of subversion, strategy, and defiance.

He felt drained now, too. Empty, as he read his lover's words over again, scrutinizing them for exactly how stubborn she was feeling. If it came down to it - to mid August - would she hold firm and refuse to marry him, even though they loved each other? Could it really be love, if she was willing to marry someone else, and watch Harry marry someone else, as well? She knew about his desire for a stable, loving family. She had to know that if he married someone, even 'as a friend,' they ran the risk of never being together again. If Harry found love elsewhere, marriage and a home and children… he'd never leave them. Not even for Ginny.

After that letter, Hermione seemed to give him more space. She read and worked in her bedroom in the evenings, and stayed late at the office more often. The days passed in a dejected blur, and before Harry realized, it was mid July. They were in the midst of a sweltering, dry summer; the heat on the streets of London felt as oppressive as his looming future.

He'd taken to pacing the blocks around Grimmauld Place - hot as it was, it was preferable to the stuffy, dusty rooms inside. He dressed in muggle clothes, plain t-shirts and khaki shorts. Today, he was looking forlornly at a shimmer of heat emanating from the sidewalk ahead. The blurred reality reminded Harry of the pensieve, and made him wish that this whole marriage law was some alternate reality that existed only in a memory.

It had begun to look more and more like he'd end up marrying Hermione, he thought darkly. The hugest plot twist of his life, and hers. Two owls circled overhead, brown spotty Ministry owls. They swooped down toward Grimmauld Place, out of Harry's sight. He quickened his pace a bit, curious what he and Hermione could both be receiving at the same time.

Inside the gloomy house, he found his friend in the kitchen, hunched over the counter, reading a parchment scroll.

"More terrible laws?" he asked, taking his own identical scroll from the windowsill.

"No," Hermione said flatly. "Nothing exciting. The Ministry is throwing a ball."

"A what?" Harry unrolled the paper and read.

The Ministry of Magic

cordially invites you,

Harry Potter

to a formal ball celebrating the relationships that are saving our magical world

July 31, 1999

7 o'clock in the evening

Ministry Headquarters - Conference Room B

"I heard rumors about this at work. Apparently the actual marriage and conception rates for June and so far in July weren't as high as the experts predicted. They're getting a lot of push back, angry letters, requests for extensions. This ball is kind of a… mixer. They want people to mingle, meet potential spouses they wouldn't have met otherwise."

Harry watched his friend scowl at her invitation. He'd tried not to look at her too much since their kiss, lest his feelings stir back up. It was like his lustful fantasy had been a bottle of champagne, and now that it had been popped open, it couldn't be corked back up. So he just had to be careful, instead.

"Are you, er… are you going to go?"

Hermione sighed at his question. She was still leaned over the counter, and Harry had to focus very hard not to let his eyes wander to her exposed cleavage.

"I suppose I'd better. If you and Ginny figure things out, I'll be out of luck. Did you see all the announcements in the Daily Prophet today? Things are ramping up now. The only men left in August are going to be 52-year-old bachelors with beer bellies and dragon pox."

"And me," Harry laughed, but Hermione shook her head.

"I saw Percy Weasley at the Ministry today. He was turning in some forms, and decided to do it in person since his department is nearby. He's married to Penelope, now, they did a quick courthouse ceremony. Anyway, he said his mother was busy sewing some massive wedding robes for Ginny. I asked whether Ginny was upset about that, and he said she seemed to have accepted it."

"Accepting that Molly Weasley is going to make her a wedding dress whether she likes it or not is a far cry from agreeing to marry me."

Harry turned away, feeling bitter all over again.

"The ball is on your birthday, you know…" Hermione said thoughtfully. "I bet Ginny would come, because of that. I'm sure some of her teammates will come into town for it."

He turned back to her, and the wheels began to turn in his head. He could ask Ginny to come to the ball, dance with her, remind her of how in love they were, and get her to marry him. Maybe he could even convince Ron to come, and help him prepare a grand apology for Hermione, and they could all go back to normal. To calm. To the days before the damn marriage law and needing plan A and B and C… to the days when he could watch his best friend leave the kitchen and head up the stairs to her bedroom without watching her bum all the way up.

Groan.


	3. Malfoy Manor

Draco Malfoy  
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England  
July 1999

Crispy dried grass crunched under Draco's feet as he crossed the garden. It was uncommonly hot this summer, and without the fleet of servants and groundskeepers they used to have, Malfoy Manor was suffering through the heat wave just as the muggles did. Draco had half a thought to look up watering charms in the library himself, but then shrugged and shook the thought from his head. Why did he care if the manor grounds remained pristine? They were his prison. Let them crumble.

He knew he was late already, but his pace remained unhurried. It was too hot to run, and he certainly didn't feel the need to apparate. Even his saunter seemed to be bringing him to the manor house quicker than he wished. Dinner with his fiancée was a weekly chore that became more dreadful each time they were forced into it, like marionettes sitting across from each other at the grand dining table, strings being yanked at by their respective families.

His father had wasted no time after the announcement of the new marriage edict. Just two days later, Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass had come to dinner with their young daughter Astoria - freshly 17 years old and on her summer holiday from Hogwarts. Draco had been confused, as Hogwarts students are exempt from the law until graduation. Astoria didn't need to marry yet. The girl had demurred, shyly insisting that she'd already taken her OWLs and didn't see the need to go further with her schooling, especially if she was going to be a wife and mother.

The whole thing seemed off, he thought to himself as he climbed the great stone steps to the back door. Eight of these Friday dinners, eight weeks of being engaged, and he hadn't spent a single moment alone with Astoria. How could he be comfortable marrying someone when every interaction was chaperoned? Maybe the parents knew that with a moment of uncensored conversation, the couple would realize how awful their arrangement was, and refuse to go through with it.

Draco paused outside the door to the dining room, steeling himself like an actor waiting in the wings, getting into character for his grand performance. Just then, his mother Narcissa approached, with two wine bottles in her hands from the cellar, heels clicking briskly across the flagstone.

"Draco! There you are!" she whispered harshly, "You're late. They've been here for nearly a half hour!"

"Sorry, Mother." Draco hoped his drawl would tell her the truth - he wasn't sorry at all. "I was walking around the lake and lost track of time."

Narcissa sighed, letting her wine-laden hands drop to her sides in exasperation. She knew Draco's habit well. In the year since the war ended, her son had moped around the manor grounds, hardly seeing any friends or doing much of anything. His scowl had become a permanent fixture.

"I think Astoria will be good for you, dear," she said softly. "Give your life some purpose. A friend."

Draco raised one eyebrow.

"What makes you think she'll be my friend? She's being pressured into this just as much as I am. I'm sure she feels the same as my all of my former friends - Malfoys are traitors. And if not traitors, then we're evil dark wizards. But Father is willing to pay enough…"

"Keep your voice down!" Narcissa hissed. "Your father isn't paying her to marry you. Astoria is a bright girl, I'm sure she understands the complex situation you were in, and the reasoning behind our actions. Not all pureblood families supported the Dark Lord, Draco."

"If you say so," he replied dully, leaning back against the stone wall with crossed arms. Like a petulant child, he thought. Oh well. Let them think him a child, maybe they'll realize he's not ready to be a husband and father. Draco looked down at his forearm darkly. The faint scar of his mark was still there, haunting him. A puckered, pale bruise that would never completely heal, physical proof of his past, separating him from his peers.

"Oh, son," Narcissa drew close to him. "You have to let go of your guilt and move forward. You helped Potter catch the criminals, sent them all to Azkaban. We donated nearly half of the family's remaining assets to rebuilding. We've paid our dues. You can go out in society with a clear conscience."

Draco scowled deeply, not taking his eyes off his arm. "I'll never have a clear conscience, Mother. You raised me on the wrong side - the evil side, the losing side. I made irreversible mistakes before I was even legally allowed to apparate. I can't just catch a few Death Eaters and consider my slate clean. And now I'm supposed to get married, have children… I barely know who I am. How can I be responsible for a family?"

His mother looked pained, and glanced toward the door, behind which Lucius and the Greengrass family were waiting.

"Look, Draco. We know that your family legacy isn't an easy thing to overcome. But each generation will benefit from the things their parents learn. Your father… he may never completely change, accept the idea that pureblood wizards are equal to all others. But you, you're different. Open to change. And your children will be even more so. They will be lucky to have you as a father."

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, annoyed, but his mind flashed to a vision of a small boy with sandy brown hair, sitting on his knee and looking up at him with wide hazel eyes. Asking him about their family name, what 'pureblood' means, who Voldemort was. What could he tell this innocent child? What answers could spare him from the shame, the conflict, the trauma? Draco shook his head and his mind cleared.

"You have to come in now, dear. We must not be rude." Narcissa nodded toward the dining room door.

"Alright," he drawled, peeling himself from the wall. "But I have a condition. I need a moment alone with Astoria tonight. I'm supposed to marry her in two weeks and I've not even said hello to her without our parents there. Shouldn't I be taking her on dates… falling in love?"

Now it was his mother's turn to roll her eyes. "You may feel unprepared for this, but you know we have to follow the Ministry's rules to a tee. All eyes are on our family, Draco. Falling in love will have to wait until after the wedding."

With that, she marched into the dining room, brandishing the wine bottles joyfully as if she'd just emerged from the cellar. Draco followed and took his seat, although every muscle fibre in his body was telling him to bolt.

The conversation was inane as usual. How delicious the food was - their two remaining house elves had outdone themselves. Ways the Ministry was wasting money, like throwing a ball tomorrow night. Gossip about other pureblood families. How unbearably hot and dry the weather is.

Draco kept trying to catch Astoria's eye, but she seemed to be avoiding his gaze. He watched her eat, imagining what it might be like to sit across from her at dinner for the rest of their lives. She was tall and graceful, with straight golden hair and blue eyes so pale they looked like ice. It was no wonder his father had thought she was a good match, Draco thought. She nearly looked like a Malfoy already. He made a mental note to change that daydream image of his son to a blue-eyed blond tyke. Where had hazel eyes come from?

Astoria was asking her mother more about the Ministry's ball. Mrs. Greengrass - a thin woman with a long face who reminded Draco of a bird - gave her daughter a simpering smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"It's only for singles, dear. The Ministry is taking pity on those who have not been engaged yet and trying to help them find someone. A waste of money if you ask me, it should not be the government's problem that people aren't competent at seeking out matches for themselves."

Oh, Draco thought, like Astoria and I sought this match? He was actually jealous of those people attending tomorrow's ball. Out in the world, mingling and dating. Having choices. As the dinner table conversation droned on, he dreamed of what it would be like to find someone organically. Maybe they'd meet in the cobblestone streets off Diagon Alley, lock eyes, he'd ask her to get a pint of butterbeer at the pub. They'd talk for hours until he had the nerve to lean over and-

"Draco."

His mother kicked him sharply under the table, and his head jerked up.

"Astoria said she'd love to see the modern gallery room, could you please show her?"

His daydream must have muffled some artful conversation on his mother's part, granting his wish for time alone with his fiancée. As they left the dining room, Draco could see his father's eyebrow cocked inquisitively at him. He'd get yelled at later, surely, for impropriety or breaking protocol or whatever excuse they kept giving him for this bizarre courtship.

Astoria was silent as they crossed the foyer to the 'modern gallery room,' a smaller chamber off of the large gallery that housed classical paintings and family portraits. Draco tried to break the ice as they walked, but it was hard to think of what to say to someone you barely know. Their footsteps echoed off the stone floor to fill the silence.

"Incendio." He pointed his wand at the ceiling of the gallery, and a giant chandelier sparked to life, a hundred candles now aflame between dancing and shimmering crystals.

Astoria didn't seem impressed with his accuracy. She was examining the largest painting with a critical eye, and Draco watched her curiously.

"Do you like it?" He walked up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder, which he felt tense suddenly under his touch.

"I don't know. It's a little scary." Her icy eyes glanced over at him, puzzled. Draco laughed, looking at the painting. A giant canvas stretched nearly the length of the grand room, covered in a jumble of shapes - horses, bulls, distorted faces, candles, wands. All of the twisted lines slowly unwound and re-formed as they moved against each other - an eternal struggle.

"It's called Guernica. A wizard named Picasso painted it during a war in his country. I feel that it shows the chaos and inhumanity of battle. I suppose it should be scary."

Draco had looked at this painting with new eyes since the battle at Hogwarts. No one could really know how accurate Picasso was unless they'd been in the thick of it. All dust and bolts of light, body parts and blood. As a child, the painting had made him uncomfortable. Now, it felt like his duty to look. Remind himself what he'd caused. What he'd never do again.

"Well, thank you for showing me. Even if I don't understand." Astoria was looking at him again. She wasn't much shorter than Draco, but she was built like a ballerina - long and lean, with few curves. Her glacial eyes were level with his, framed by translucent blonde eyelashes. Draco took her hands into his, watching her face, but it remained passive.

The engagement ring on her finger dazzled up at him in the candlelight - a stupidly massive family heirloom, a diamond the size of a sickle and clear as glittering glass, nestled in a halo of small emeralds, set in gleaming platinum. The perfect ring for a Slytherin princess. Draco personally found it gaudy, and a burdensome reminder of what was coming in two weeks. He was glad there wasn't a male version of an engagement ring that he had to stare at all day.

"Astoria," he said gently, still holding her hands, "Do you really want to do this? Get married?"

Watching her expression as she put together a response reminded him of his mother. Calculated, careful. A stoic, diplomatic wife.

"Yes," she said timidly, biting her thin lower lip. "I knew my parents would probably choose my husband, since I never really had a boyfriend or anything. And they've always admired your family, so I kind of suspected that it could be you. I was a few years behind you at Hogwarts, so I don't think you ever noticed me."

No, he truly hadn't. Even now, standing in the warm glow of the gallery, face to face, she still felt like an anonymous schoolgirl. Her hands inside his were rigid and cold, reminding him of an eerily lifelike mannequin.

"I've changed a lot since Hogwarts, Astoria." His voice was harsher than he intended, maybe echoing his frustration with the lack of chemistry he was feeling. It was also distressing to Draco that she'd known who he was at Hogwarts, that her family 'admired' his. He wasn't that person anymore. He no longer yearned for the little blond pureblood Slytherin family that had been laid out before him like an offering. Two years ago, he would have been elated.

"I know," she whispered, looking down at the floor.

"Does that make you sad? That I'm not the powerful, popular prince of purebloods anymore? That my family is shunned by all Death Eaters as traitorous, and yet loathed by those who fought against Voldemort, too?"

Draco had given up on the polite, upper-class, tiptoeing conversation. This was his future wife. He had to know where they stood. Maybe part of him actually wanted to make her mad, see her inner fire. See anything.

"No, I'm not sad." Her eyes were still pointed toward her shoes. "My family stayed neutral in the war. Father thought it was the best way to protect ourselves, not get too involved. When the Dark Lord came to the estate to ask for their loyalty, my parents took us out of Hogwarts and we left for an extended vacation in Denmark."

Astoria's hands trembled slightly as she spoke, reminding Draco just how young she was. And innocent. She was away for the entire war - didn't see the bloodshed, the panic, the destruction. Describing her impromptu vacation was scary to her. Picasso was scary to her. What the hell was she going to think of being married to him?

On a whim, or maybe spurred on by her shaking hands - the most emotion he'd seen from his fiancée, ever - Draco leaned in and kissed her, without warning. Her lips were smooth, but taut and unyielding. He dropped her hands and raised his to her face, still pressing against her motionless mouth, trying desperately to feel a spark.

There was nothing. He'd kissed his fair share of girls during his years at Hogwarts. Mostly impressionable young Slytherins, awed by his ego and his legacy, not much different than Astoria here. But he'd never felt quite so… apathetic. What teenage boy didn't feel so much as tingle when he kissed a pretty girl? Especially a pretty girl who he was about to take to his bed in two short weeks?

Vexed and scowling, Draco stepped away and ran his hands through his tousled mane of silvery blond hair. He couldn't be bothered with styling it anymore, even for these dinners. He watched Astoria, with her hair like golden cornsilk, not a strand out of place, twisting her hands together and training her eyes stubbornly back on the painting.

Nothing. Not even a hint of a blush on her cheeks or a shy glance his way. Draco suppressed his urge to yell, to take his frustration out on her. The fact that they didn't love each other was a given, clear and undeniable by anyone involved. He wasn't angry about that. It was his own lack of hope, lack of interest, that was maddening. Maybe his year and a half of celibacy had broken him, he thought bitterly. So many months of living like a monk, doing penance for his sins, had fractured that part of his brain.

"Shall we go back?" Astoria asked quietly, watching Draco pace the room from the corner of her eye.

"I'm sorry, Astoria. I shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice nearly a growl. "Please give your parents my apologies. I need some air."

With a guilty twist in his stomach, Draco turned on his heel and bolted toward the back door. He made it all the way across the great lawn before drawing a breath; it was like his insides were a giant spring stretched to its limit - liable to snap at any moment and release a whole year's worth of rage, guilt, and loneliness.

Gasping for air, he dropped to the grass and laid back, trying in vain to distract himself from his angst by watching the wispy shadows of clouds move lazily across the dark sky. Inside, he was sure his parents were shocked and appalled at his sudden absence. Astoria would come back alone, shaken - although lucky for him, her cool exterior would come in handy for once.

He'd suffer the consequences later for this egregious break in his obedient son act. All summer, since that day in June when he'd been told Astoria would be his wife, Draco had been compliant. Getting married to a pureblood girl was a family duty, beyond just his parents. The stately manor house loomed in the corner of his vision, a massive albatross of a reminder that he couldn't rebel, lest he disappoint centuries of ancestors.

And truthfully, he hadn't cared at first. The guilt for his role in the war consumed him and made him indifferent to the path the rest of his life took. Astoria wasn't hideous or annoying. He could live peacefully with her, if not happily. She didn't love him, but he didn't love himself, either - why should he expect anyone else to?

But laying here, with the dry grass scratching his arms and the inky sky stretching massively above him, Draco realized that he did care, a little. His life had many decades left in it. Was he meant to live every one of them without happiness, love, lust, vigor? The thought made tears spring to his eyes.

If he canceled the wedding, he would be disowned and Astoria would be humiliated. He had no money to his own name, and no one would hire him for a job, not with this reputation. No home. Nothing to pass on to his children, if he ever had them.

Children. Who would want to bear Malfoy progeny without the accompanying fortune? No one. The pureblood families would shut him out completely, even more than now. And Merlin knew the other families would never accept him in the first place.

Plus, there was the marriage law to consider. If he ran away from this carefully calculated, preordained future, he'd have to run far. And never come back. One month from tomorrow was the last day to get married in England, or suffer the consequences. And no one but Astoria would agree to that madness.

Being powerless and trapped was nothing new, he thought bitterly. Why should it make him angry now? You can't just take a backseat in your life for nineteen years and then at the last moment, throw a tantrum because the car isn't going where you want.

Draco yelled out loud, a wordless cry of anguish. Rising in a flash, he tore off his grass-stained dress shirt and walked determinedly toward the lake.

At the grassy bank, he dropped his pants in a rumpled pile and leapt into the water. The muffled silence under the surface quieted his racing thoughts. The water was a cool shock after the thick, sultry evening air. He stayed under for a long time, watching ribbons of his own blond hair float across his vision in the fractured beams of moonlight. Maybe he could just stay down here forever, he thought.

But he floated to the surface unbidden, and didn't fight it. The forces of nature wanted him to live, he laughed bitterly. Swimming with graceful, practiced ease toward the center of the water, Draco wondered if the physics of buoyancy applied to lifetimes as well as bodies. He had tried to force himself down. To obey, pay his penance, isolate himself. But now his denial and self-restraint was boiling over, unsustainable and dangerous. He felt something building within him like pressure in a shaken bottle of champagne.

Draco turned to float on his back, pale skin covered in drops of water that reminded him of liquid mercury in the moonlight. Maybe apathy could work two ways, he pondered, letting the lake's ripples rock him gently as he floated. Apathy could mean doing what he was told with no consideration for his own wishes or dreams, as he had been. Or… it could mean allowing life to buoy him to the surface, force him to breathe again, force him to live. Maybe he wasn't meant to be unhappy forever. Maybe life had greater things in store for him than being a pathetic failure of a Death Eater.

In the distance, he heard a pop, and saw the bat-eared silhouette of a house elf at the edge of the water.

"Is Master Draco okay?" A tiny voice called out. He swam toward her, careful to keep his bare buttocks beneath the surface so as not to embarrass the little elf.

"Yes Ferny," he replied as he drew closer to the bank. "I'm alright. Just got too stuffy in there."

The elf turned her wide, mirror-like eyes toward the sky. "It is unusually hot, Master Draco. I hope it rains soon. I think it will." Her small voice was dreamy, and reminded him of Professor Trelawny's when she had her visions - but squeakier. Then she seemed to snap out of it and looked back down to Draco. He could see his gleaming bare chest and torso reflected in the elf's gaze; he sank lower into the water.

"Was there something you came to, er, tell me, Ferny?"

She nodded vigorously. "Master and Mistress ordered me to find Master Draco and tell him to come to the Drawing Room at once."

He laughed darkly, imagining how his parents would fume and glare when Ferny reported back that she'd found 'Master Draco' naked in the lake.

"Okay, Ferny. I'll go. Give me a moment to dry and get dressed."

The elf nodded again, but didn't leave.

"Would Master Draco like me to put a breeze-blowing charm on his bedroom tonight?"

He smiled, imagining the hurricane that Ferny might conjure up in an effort to keep him cool.

"No, I'm alright, Ferny. But thank you."

Draco swam toward his pile of clothes on the far bank. He was surprised to find that he wasn't afraid of the scene awaiting him in the drawing room. In fact… their outrage seemed laughable.

"Ferny?" He called over his shoulder at the elf who hadn't yet disapparated.

"Yes, Master Draco?"

"Could you please find my dress robes and prepare them for tomorrow? And don't tell anyone."


	4. The Ball I

Ginny Weasley  
Ministry of Magic Headquarters - Conference Room B  
July 1999

"Ron, don't stare."

Ginny elbowed her brother sharply in the side, causing him to tear his eyes from the dancing couple across the ballroom - two dark heads bowed together, whispering to each other as they swayed slowly. Harry and Hermione.

"But why are they dancing like that? You think living together at Grimmauld has caused them to… lose the plot?" Ron's face was a pale grimace, sickened by the thought of his best friend and his girlfriend as anything beyond platonic. Ginny knew it was a sore spot for Ron, and not without cause. Honestly, Harry and Hermione got on better than any of the rest of them. Sometimes they seemed to have whole conversations with a glance, leaving Ron clueless and annoyed. But they'd make an awful couple, Ginny laughed to herself.

Being roommates with Hermione for the last year at Hogwarts had given her a new appreciation for the girl's famous brains and bravery, but also for the depth of her stubbornness and rigidity. Harry could appreciate those qualities in a friend, but Ginny knew he would go batty with a girlfriend as stern as Hermione. Harry was playful, rebellious, spontaneous… or at least he had been. Everything seemed to have changed since June. Maybe Ron was right.

The bloody marriage edict was the absolute bane of Ginny's existence at the moment. She'd had a perfect plan in mind - ten good years playing pro quiddich with the Harpies, then settle down with Harry at the age of 27, apply for coaching positions, start a family. Of course, she hadn't told Harry that plan, because she knew that ten years of waiting for her was a lot to ask. If he'd really insisted, she would have compromised with getting married at 21. But babies would have to wait. And now, everything was topsy turvy.

"Gin, should I cut in, d'ya think?"

Ron was still transfixed by Harry and Hermione, who had yet to notice the Weasleys' presence.

"No, Ron," she replied firmly. "You need to leave her alone. You were a right git the day she left, and then the owls you sent… yes, she told me. We're friends, remember?."

Ginny smirked at her brother's dismayed expression. "You're better off using this time to chat up some other girls, honestly. Move on. Hermione told me Harry's getting loads of owls from girls asking whether he's available. You'd probably be getting them, too, if people knew you were single now."

Ron looked cheered at that thought, and began to scan the room for anyone else he knew. The Ministry had gone all out for this soiree. A plain conference room with wood-paneled walls and a high ceiling had been transformed overnight into a formal ballroom, with twinkling chandeliers floating above the dance floor. There were small, round tables scattered about, with flowing silk tablecloths that seemed to subtly shift in color - violet slowly deepening to navy, then morphing to emerald green. A long, marble-topped bar lined the far wall, with a row of barstools sparsely populated by dejected-looking witches and wizards.

Everyone was in their best dress robes - Ginny had bought new ones in Holyhead with her teammates yesterday. They were a pale champagne gold color, which she hoped complimented her red hair and light brown eyes, as well as showing her Gryffindor pride. Not that she really cared about impressing anyone at this ball, she reminded herself. She had only agreed to come because it was Harry's birthday, and he was obligated to attend as a Lead Auror who was not yet engaged.

Still, she thought, it was kind of nice to have an excuse to dress up again. Since the war ended, everyone had been grieving and rebuilding, in no mood to celebrate despite the relief they felt. Ginny's last year at Hogwarts had been somehow simultaneously somber and more lighthearted than any other. It was a similar feeling to tonight's ball - doom and destruction no longer hung over their heads; it had been replaced with adulthood and marriage. The crowd seemed torn between laughter and camaraderie, and edgy tension, knowing there was only one month left to find a spouse.

Ginny looked for her teammates who'd said they were coming - they must be arriving fashionably late, she thought. Damn her charitable pity for her brother, who had been positively wallowing since his breakup. She'd come to The Burrow the night before, to convince him to attend the ball with her. It had taken some cajoling, but she'd always been able to convince her troupe of older brothers to do what she wanted, in the end. And tonight, she wanted some company that wasn't Harry Potter, who had been relentless in his marriage-related pressure lately.

Leaning onto one of the small, round tables, Ginny found herself inadvertently watching Harry and Hermione dance, just what she'd scolded Ron for. They looked natural together, comfortable. Harry had an easy smile, and his hand was relaxed at Hermione's waist. For all of her swearing that they'd never be a couple, Ginny had to admit that they looked rather cozy.

Hermione was wearing gorgeous burgundy dress robes that fell off her shoulders, cinched in with a belt, then fell open around her legs. Her dark curls were gathered in a cascade over one shoulder, bouncing slightly as her head bobbed with laughter at something Harry said. It was actually comical how stunning Hermione looked, because Ginny knew her friend had no idea. Hermione's ego had been thoroughly squashed by her years of being a bushy-haired bookworm, the butt of schoolboy jokes. Even when every wizard in the room would have fallen at her feet for a chance to dance with her, Hermione would insist that they were staring in a negative way.

Harry was in his classic black and white dress robes, but his hair was still mussed in a bedhead sort of way that made Ginny's cheeks flush with memory. How many mornings had she woken up in her small bed at The Burrow, nuzzled into the crook of Harry's arm, admiring his mess of dark hair and handsome sleeping face?

She bit her lip as she wondered if it would ever happen again. Would Harry ever agree to marry someone else on paper only, and continue to 'date' Ginny in real life? This man, who was spinning Hermione around clumsily on the dance floor, was so sweet and earnest and straightforward. He may be simply unable to endure a sham marriage. She may never wake up next to him again.

"Are they, er… together?" a high pitched voice surprised Ginny, coming from a girl who'd just appeared against her shoulder. Her hair was thick, blonde, beachy waves, and her crushed velvet dress robes a trendy shade of dusty purple. Her namesake color - Lavender. Arched eyebrows even higher than usual, she stared out at Harry and Hermione, transfixed. It was true, the two looked for all the world like a royal couple, the war hero poster children of the new, peaceful era.

"No, no," Ginny murmured, taking her elbows off the table and standing straighter. "They're just friends. Ron and Hermione only broke up a month ago. She's been living with Harry in London."

Lavender was speechless, staring at Ginny with her pink lips in a perfect, surprised 'O'.

"What? What's wrong?"

At first, Lavender just let out a shrill squeal, then finally found words.

"I didn't know they broke up! Why haven't I heard? I mean - that is - not that I'm happy. Unless… is - is he happy?" Lavender's vivacious persona seemed to be positively vibrating with the news.

"I wouldn't say he's thrilled, Lav," Ginny replied diplomatically, "but I think he knew it was coming. He's just been thrown off with the marriage law. They've been together so long, he wasn't expecting to have to find anyone else so quickly."

Lavender pouted a little, and tossed her blonde hair like a horse shaking off a fly.

"Not that long, Ginny. Ron and I dated most of sixth year. And they really didn't get together until after our seventh year, so. Anyway. Is Ron here tonight?"

Ginny laughed. It was good to see Lavender again. After the war, the members of Dumbledore's Army hadn't really had a chance to say goodbye; they just went home to grieve and be with their families. Although Lavender Brown wasn't one of the members Ginny would have put on her personal reunion list, her antics were like a bubbly blast of nostalgia.

"Ron's here, I'm not sure where he went… maybe check the bar."

"Oh, Ginny, I'm so glad," Lavender gushed, gripping Ginny's forearm. "Of course I didn't want to step on Hermione's toes by sending an owl to Ron, she practically saved my life during the battle, blasting Greyback away from me."

She literally saved your life, Ginny thought with an eye roll. Lavender didn't notice; her river of words flowed on uninterrupted.

"I couldn't go behind her back after that, owling her boyfriend. But Ginny - all year I've been having visions of him in my crystal ball, and the tea leaves kept telling me we'd get married! I thought I must be reading them wrong, but now he's here, and single… Oh my heart might burst! I have to go find him!"

With that, Lavender rushed off, a blur of blonde hair and velvet and flowery perfume. Ginny laughed - Ron didn't know what was coming for him. But she felt sure he wouldn't be disappointed. At the very least, Lavender was always a good ego boost for him, which he needed badly.

Her brother knew he'd messed up, taken Hermione for granted, and reacted badly. Hence the guilt-ridden wallowing and drinking binges. Under normal circumstances, Ginny figured he'd probably mope about for a few months at least. But they didn't have a few months, none of them did. September first was circling in like a vulture, ever closer.

"Thanks for coming, Ginny."

Someone else had appeared at her side. Ginny reprimanded herself for being so distracted and dreamy tonight - that wasn't like her. But this time, it was a black-suited figure with disheveled dark hair and a tentative smile

"Happy birthday, Harry."

She smiled back at him kindly, but didn't reach out for a hug as she was so tempted to do. Be strong, she thought. Show Harry that just because you agreed to come to the ball doesn't mean you're agreeing to his plan.

"Thank you."

The conversation was stilted, tense - it reminded Ginny of when she and Harry first met, when she'd been too shy to spit out more than two words at a time and Harry's conversational skills weren't much better. But it should be different now… they'd seen each other naked, for Merlin's sake. He'd been inside her. No one should be nervous.

"You look amazing," Harry said appreciatively, his eyes darting momentarily down to the low neckline of Ginny's dress.

"Thanks," she replied. He really did look handsome. The dress robes were a modern, slim fit, showing of Harry's lean physique. Ginny could picture every inch of lightly tanned skin and every ridge of his abs, just inches away under those robes.

She cursed in a whisper to herself. It had been so long - almost two months - since Harry had shared her bed at The Burrow. And she didn't really know anyone in Holyhead yet, since she spent all of her time at practice or at the team house. Despite her misgivings about Harry's desire for marriage and babies, the intense craving for him persisted.

"Dance with me?" Harry asked, holding out a hand like a tentative peace offering.

Ginny's eyes flicked from his outstretched hand to his emerald eyes, truly sparkling like gems in the dancing light of the chandelier above them. He seemed vulnerable, genuine. But that was the problem. Harry genuinely wanted her - a life with her, a future. And it was more than she could give.

"I'll dance with you, as long as you're not trying to change my mind."

Harry looked confused.

"I want to know for sure that even if we have a good time tonight - dancing, drinking, hanging out with old friends - you won't try and convince me that we should get married right now. I've told you my stance. I need to know that you'll respect that."

Harry dropped his hand to his side and looked around as if waiting for backup, or maybe hoping someone would appear with a bottle of firewhiskey.

"I have immense respect for you, Ginny, but you know I don't agree with your 'stance'," he said, stepping closer and keeping his voice low. "You think that if we got married now, I'd somehow keep you from following your dreams with the Harpies. And I have no idea how to prove to you that I wouldn't, except showing you that I can give you space, which I have! I'm completely fine with living apart. It's much better than being forced to marry other people, Ginny. Isn't it?"

Harry was flushed now, his eyes wide. Almost like panic, Ginny thought. Why did he seem so afraid? She'd always said her plan was a temporary marriage, just a legal placeholder until she and Harry were truly ready to get married. Unless… maybe Harry wasn't planning a placeholder.

"Have you decided who you'll marry?" she asked, and saw his body jolt at the unexpected question. "Is it Hermione?"

Harry's eyes narrowed, and Ginny knew right away that her hunch was correct. Harry had never been good at hiding his emotions with her.

"Look," he said, holding his hand out again, although it had a slight tremble this time. "We may not agree about all this right now. We may never agree, I suppose. But it's more important to me that we have a good time tonight. I promise not to bring it up, or try to change your mind. Just dance with me. Please, Ginny."

Although she suddenly had a hundred more questions for him, Ginny took Harry's hand and followed him onto the dance floor.


	5. The Ball II

Hermione Granger  
Ministry of Magic Headquarters - Conference Room B  
July 1999

The cocktail she sipped was strong and fizzy, burning and tickling her throat simultaneously. Hermione decided it was better to get it over with, and downed it in three gulps.

Across the room, Lavender Brown was making awful screeching giggling sounds as she listened to a story Ron was telling. It was the first time Hermione had seen him since their argument at The Burrow, and it churned up such a mixture of emotions - sadness, guilt, rage, fear of the future - that Hermione had uncharacteristically marched straight to the bar.

She raised a finger to the witch behind the counter, who grinned and began preparing another drink. This end of the bar, away from the dance floor, was nearly deserted. Most people were getting drinks and taking them away to mingle at the tables, which Hermione had to remind herself was the entire point of the event.

The only people she really cared about talking to here were Harry and Ginny, who were fully occupied on the dance floor at the moment, staring into each other's eyes. Good, Hermione thought. They needed time together. Even though Ginny changing her mind would take away Hermione's safety net of a marriage to Harry, she knew it was the right thing.

His kiss that night at Grimmauld Place had been surprising, and kind of sweet, but nothing earth-shattering. In the month since, Harry had seemed restless and nervous, which Hermione assumed was the creeping dread that Ginny wouldn't come around in time and he'd have to keep his promise to a platonic marriage instead.

Truthfully, that dread was mutual. Marrying Harry wouldn't be awful; he was smart, kind, funny… Nevertheless, she couldn't help but think back to her childhood daydreams of love and passion. Harry definitely didn't make her feel butterflies or anything of the sort. He was just a practical choice.

Hermione took a long sip of her drink - this one seemed even stronger. Maybe the bartender had seen her scowling out at the crowd. Oh well. The pleasant fire growing in her stomach would distract her while she mingled, if she ever got the nerve.

To her left, a shadowed figure took a seat in the very last barstool, all the way in the corner. He was tall, and filled out his expensive-looking charcoal grey dress robes in a most impressive way. Tousled blond hair fell to his chin and obscured his face from her view.

The bartender witch had a sly, flirtatious smile as she took his order and fixed his drink. Hermione was intrigued - she had an excellent memory, and she couldn't remember anyone that tall and muscular and blond from Hogwarts, even the years before hers.

Drawing courage from the warmth of the alcohol in her gut, Hermione slid off her stool and moved down a couple spots, leaving just one empty place between herself and the mysterious stranger, now hunched over his drink. He looked up at her, and Hermione almost fell over.

"Malfoy?"

The man raised one golden eyebrow.

"Yes? Can I help you, Granger?"

Draco Malfoy had certainly grown up since she saw him last. In her mind, he was still a slender, sharp-faced boy with slicked-back hair and a sneer. But the man before her had none of those things. It took Hermione a moment to reconcile.

"No, sorry. You just look different."

Draco huffed softly. "A year in isolation changes a guy."

Isolation? Hermione's brain obediently clicked to the information she knew about the Malfoys since the war. They'd been granted a full pardon thanks to their betrayal of Voldemort, which hadn't been popular with the other pureblood families - many of whom had relatives stuck in Azkaban for war crimes that paled in comparison to those of Lucius Malfoy.

In fact, Draco had been invaluable in helping the Aurors identify and capture the Death Eaters who'd escaped after the battle. Harry had mentioned a couple of times in his letters to Ginny how bizarre it was to work alongside Malfoy, and how unexpectedly brilliant he was at the job. And he'd insisted on working for free and off the record. Some kind of atonement?

Hermione knew she should leave their conversation at that, and return to her old seat. Even if Draco was repentant, he was still the boy who'd tormented her endlessly since they were eleven years old. A change of heart during battle didn't equate to a total change of personality, or a change of idiotic elitist opinions on blood status. But she felt strangely interested, and he didn't seem to loathe her presence as he once had.

"Thank you for helping Harry and Ron." Hermione gulped to say his name out loud. "It would have taken them years to catch all those dark wizards without you."

Draco tossed his drink back - it looked like straight firewhiskey. He looked sideways at Hermione, still with one eyebrow raised. Was he surprised she was talking to him?

"Well, I owed them. I should have died in that battle."

Now it was her turn to raise one eyebrow.

"You tried to save them at the Manor, though, Harry told me. And he definitely would have been killed if -"

She cut herself off, watching Draco spin the ice in his glass anxiously.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have."

He raised his eyes back to hers, and for the first time she noticed their color - darker than the eerie silver she remembered. Now they reminded her of a storm cloud, bruised and shifting, charcoal and olive and steel. Her stomach seemed to twist as they held eye contact, which was quite puzzling.

"It's alright," he said in a low voice that was trying very hard to be breezy and casual, but not quite achieving it.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Hermione said, though she wasn't quite sure why she kept talking. Must be the alcohol. "I thought you'd have a dozen Slytherin girls asking you to marry them right away."

Draco smirked, a tilted smile full of bitter irony.

"You'd be surprised how unpopular you become with the Slytherin crowd when you help defeat a Dark Lord," he said sarcastically.

"So you're not engaged?"

Hermione cursed her curious brain. The questions just fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Actually, I am. Technically."

Draco turned on his stool to fully face her, and leaned sideways against the bar. He seemed like a character from an old muggle movie, she thought. Like a young James Dean, all slouchy and brooding. He just needed a cigarette hanging between his lips.

"Why are you here if you're engaged?"

Of course, she wouldn't put it past Draco Malfoy to stay on the lookout for something better, keeping a few girls on the back burner. At Hogwarts, he'd always seemed to have interchangeable female groupies who took turns hanging on his arm. But he didn't seem smug or devious right now; his expression was almost… pained.

"It's an arranged marriage. Our parents' choice. We're not in love."

Hermione watched his face, his fine eyebrows knit together as he stared into the back of the bar as if he were watching the distant horizon. With a sigh, she finished her drink and sat quietly for a moment before responding.

"It seems like lots of us aren't able to marry for love right now, with this deadline coming. Hopefully we can all remarry for the right reasons later on."

Draco shook his head stubbornly.

"My family is old school. We don't do divorces."

Typical purebloods. Expected to tolerate unhappiness in favor of propriety and appearances. And Draco had always been an obedient son - until the end of the war, that is.

"You've broken so many of their screwy, defective pureblood rules now… what's one more?"

She was musing to herself, really, but Draco laughed. He peered at her again, reevaluating, which made Hermione squirm uncomfortably. He kept looking at her, and it wasn't with the disdain and antipathy she expected from him. And even more surprising, she didn't exactly mind talking to him, either.

"Well, Granger, that's true. Maybe it's me, then. I don't want a loveless marriage that I know is temporary. I guess I'm a romantic."

Draco shrugged, but didn't turn away. He was watching her reaction, an impish smile playing on his lips. Hermione shook her head sympathetically.

"Good luck finding true love within a month. We're all having to settle."

The bartender witch set two more drinks in front of them, and Draco thanked her. Surprising.

"You're not marrying Weasley?"

There was a note of genuine surprise in his voice. It was a biting reminder that the whole wizarding world had thought of her and Ron as a picture-perfect couple, an unparalleled love story.

"No," she said firmly, hoping her voice didn't quiver. "We broke up just before the marriage edict."

Hermione waited for Draco to make some rude comment about Ron, but it didn't come. He just sipped his drink and looked at her curiously.

"So what's your plan?"

She cringed at the question. Her real 'plan,' if it could be called that, was some kind of miraculous romance-novel plot in which she found true love and could be married happily ever after, just as Draco had said.

"Harry and I agreed to get married if we don't find… anything else. He's hoping Ginny will marry him, but she's quite stubborn. And I… don't really have other prospects."

It was mortifying to admit, and sounded beyond pathetic when she said it out loud. She'd marry her best friend if nothing better came along. What kind of life was that? Even Draco Malfoy's arranged marriage probably had more chemistry than she had with Harry.

She couldn't meet his eye anymore, afraid of the judgment and pity she'd see. Turning out to the crowd, she saw Ron at the edge of the dance floor, watching Lavender dance happily with Padma. Before she could look away, her eyes locked with his. Ron's face morphed from peacefully amused to a resentful scowl, and he began walking toward the bar. Damn.

"Oh no," she breathed. Draco slipped quickly from the barstool, standing close and protective, before she could even blink.

"What?" He whispered, scanning the crowd like a soldier on patrol. Draco really would make a great Auror, she thought absently. He must have spotted Ron approaching, because his posture relaxed. No Death Eaters or Dark Lords - just ex-boyfriends.

"He's mad," she whispered back, "Can you help me make an excuse to leave?"

Draco grinned as if she'd just given him a gift.

"Absolutely, Granger. Follow my lead."

In an instant, his face changed from a mischievous smile to completely serious and still - an actor getting into character. He remained standing at her side, drink in hand.

"Hermione." Ron was at her side now, not acknowledging Malfoy at all. His bright, sky blue eyes were positively glowering, and she couldn't imagine the venomous words he was about to spit at her, if his owls were any indication.

"Are you-"

"Well, Granger?" Draco interrupted Ron, an annoyed, impatient look on his face, arms crossed. Hermione looked up at the two men, fumbling for what she was supposed to say.

"Are you going to show me those reports or not?"

"Er… yes. Sorry, Ron, I was just going…" she stood quickly, and the blood seemed to rush from her head, making her legs wobble dangerously. Draco's steadying hand was against her back, out of Ron's sight.

"What reports?" Ron asked, glancing between the two of them with narrowed eyes.

"Granger is working on new legislation regarding house elf welfare, as I'm sure you know," Draco replied coolly. "She apparently has some reports on their mistreatment amongst pureblood families, and I was going to look over them to corroborate what I could. If that's alright with you, Weasley."

His hand was still on the small of her back; Hermione could feel its warmth through the cool silk of her robes.

"Right now? In the middle of a ball?" Ron was still skeptical.

"My work is important to me, Ron," Hermione said decisively. That was certainly believable. How many times had she shut him down - for arguments, conversations, sex - because she had work to do? Ron wouldn't question it.

As she expected, the redhead sighed and stepped aside to let Hermione and Draco pass. They walked briskly to the door, not looking back.

"You were brilliant," Hermione said with a relieved giggle, stumbling into the lift beside Draco. He bowed sarcastically. The lift jolted to the right with a shudder, and both of them reached up for a hand-hold loop to steady themselves. As they accidentally overlapped, Hermione felt a tingling warmth run down her arm as if she'd stuck her fingers in an electric outlet. Draco removed his hand slowly, his eyes fixed on her with an expression somewhere between shock and confusion.

They stood frozen, sizing each other up, silent except the woosh of the lift moving between floors. If you'd told Hermione a week ago that she'd be alone in a lift with Draco Malfoy, half drunk and laughing with him, she'd have called you crazy. But here she stood, distractedly admiring his sharp jawline and the crease in his right cheek where a single dimple appeared when he smiled.

She knew she should be scolding herself and remembering all the years he'd been an awful, selfish, bullying prick. But the alcohol was making her brain fuzzy, and he hadn't been awful at all tonight. In fact, he'd been quite kind, helping her get away from Ron. And then there was the matter of the electricity that seemed to flow from his skin…

The lift stopped on the eleventh floor, and Hermione led the way to her office, still lost in thought. Draco followed her through the corridors wordlessly. She wasn't even sure why they were actually going to her office - those house elf reports didn't exist. The ruse was complete, she was away from Ron. But maybe they'd better kill some time before going back to the ball, so it looks realistic, she thought.

Hermione's office was a small room lined with bookshelves, dominated by a wide wooden desk in the middle. Draco was examining the bookshelves, which held a few of her favorite keepsakes and photos scattered amongst the rows of leather-bound books. This office felt more like home to Hermione than Grimmauld Place did, really. It was cozy and calming. Maybe because it smelled like a library, she laughed to herself.

"Are these your parents?" Draco asked, holding a photo in a plain silver frame. Hermione nodded. It was one memento she hadn't been able to give up as she accepted the reality that her parents would never remember her - their wedding photo.

She went over to Draco and looked at it with him. The couple was standing on the church steps with beaming smiles, her mother in a simple white gown and her father in a navy suit. They looked overjoyed, their cheeks flushed after their first kiss as husband and wife.

"That's what I want," she sighed. "They were so in love. Still are, I suppose. They met at university. My dad always loved to tell me how his heart stopped when he saw my mum for the first time, walking toward him in the lecture hall. They got married six months later, even though their families thought they should wait."

"Proved everyone wrong," Draco murmured. It wasn't a question, but a statement, as if he was proud of them. Hermione was, too.

"Yes. They live to make each other happy. I was embarrassed, as a child, that my parents would kiss and cuddle all the time. But now I know. It was just a great love, worth celebrating. Not everyone gets the chance to feel that."

Tears sprang to her eyes, and Hermione had to look away from her parents' joyful faces. She went to the small silver tray on another shelf that held two crystal glasses and a decanter of firewhiskey. It had been a gift from Kingsley when she got her job, but had gone untouched since. Hermione wasn't one to drink during office hours. But tonight, it was just what she needed.

Draco accepted the glass she offered, and settled against the windowsill behind her desk. The window was bewitched to mirror the night sky of London, miles above them. It was another ruthlessly warm and muggy night, with billowy clouds blocking out the stars.

Hermione regarded Draco, who was staring out intently at the simulated skyline. He had changed so much, both physically and in his actions, that it was hard to believe he was even the same person she'd known before. This was a new man, a handsome, thoughtful man, who was quick to defend her and had a romantic streak. Who stared out of windows and ran his hand through his blond mane in such a way…

"Draco, what will you do if you don't find true love in a month? Marry your fiancée?"

He looked over at her, grey eyes flashing, and she regretted asking.

"I'll have to, won't I? The Ministry always keeps a close eye on my family. I won't be able to fly under the radar."

Hermione fidgeted with her thick silk robes, suddenly conscious of how much of her legs were exposed by the open front.

"I'd like to find someone on my own, a better fit than the girl my parents picked, even if it's not love right away," he continued, sipping his drink without taking his eyes off her. "Someone I can talk to, at least. Someone passionate, intelligent, confident… Someone with interests other than being a wife and mother."

Hermione's stomach flipped in a pleasant way, a feeling she hadn't experienced in years. A nervous, excited, anticipatory sensation. There was a teasing look in Draco's eyes, and the way he kept holding her gaze… he was flirting. It was such a foreign thing for Hermione, she didn't know what to say. Then he turned back to the window, his shoulder leaning heavily against the glass.

"It's too bad you're muggle-born, Granger."

Hermione's twisting stomach dropped into her feet like it was made of lead. Draco wasn't flirting, after all. And he hadn't changed. She was suddenly filled with shame and embarrassment for thinking of him that way. Malfoy, attractive and compassionate? Ha. She was a tipsy, wishful fool.

"And it's too bad you're an elitist pureblood bigot!" she declared angrily, setting her glass down on top of a book with a thud.

In a flash, Draco was rounding the desk and had both hands on Hermione's upper arms before she could reach for her wand. His face wasn't rageful, as she expected, but distressed. Despite her shame, Hermione noticed that his hands on her bare skin still emitted a warm, tingly feeling.

"I'm not," Draco said firmly, his eyes flicking over her face, taking in her anger and confusion. "I swear. I only said that because I'm bitter - my family would never consent to a marriage with someone who's muggle-born. I didn't mean it disparagingly, Hermione."

His use of her first name sent a shiver through Hermione's insides. No, she scolded herself. The magnetic pull she was feeling toward Malfoy had to be squashed. He - or his family, rather - would never think of her as an equal. She had to steel herself. Stay strong. Stop looking at those eyes.

"Then why are you even up here, drinking alone with me, when you could be downstairs at the ball, finding the perfect, smart, beautiful, not muggle-born girl?"

Her words were knife-sharp, full of the concealed embarrassment she held for being so terribly attracted to him. Draco's face was just inches from hers, which made the agony even more acute - he smelled of peppery smoke and firewhiskey, and at this distance she could see how long his golden eyelashes were as they squinted together with anguish.

"You're right. I should go."

Draco dropped his hands from her arms, and Hermione's heart pounded as he stalked out of the office and into the dark corridor. She slammed the door shut and felt like crying, but held it in. The alcohol had really gone to her head tonight, she thought. Her stomach was still aflutter, and her arms were tingling with the echo of his hands encircling them. She rubbed at her skin and groaned with regret. Why had she been so harsh? His explanation had seemed genuine. And his parentage wasn't his fault any more than hers was.

Then the door was flung open, and Draco was striding back into her office, his face set with determination. For a moment, Hermione thought he was going to yell at her, but he was closing the distance between them without saying a word, and then his lips were on hers with an explosion of heat and lust.

She melted into his arms, which held her up with ease. His tongue was like pure fire, moving deeply against her own. That electric sensation she'd felt in her skin earlier was now coursing through every vein and nerve in her body, so powerfully that she thought she might be actually glowing. Her hands fluttered up to touch his stubbled jaw, then down to his neck, where his pulse thumped vigorously beneath her touch.

Draco broke their kiss only to plant his lips on her neck, then her shoulders, showering her bare skin with kisses in every place he could. The warm whiskey glow in her stomach seemed to migrate lower, spreading through her belly and between her legs. She ran her hands over his broad shoulders, then through his hair, entangling her fingers in the golden-white strands.

Hermione was barely aware of him lifting her up, sitting her on the top of her desk as he nudged her legs apart with his hips. She was enveloped in drunken, lustful bliss, only conscious of his lips moving against her skin. Then their mouths met again, and she wrapped her legs around him, not caring that her dress robes were falling open over her thighs.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice called out, pleading with her to stop and think. Tonight was supposed to be about finding candidates for marriage, not for an - admittedly, very enjoyable - one-night stand in her office with her now-handsome childhood enemy. And besides, she would not allow herself to lose her virginity on her office desk, which was clearly where this was heading. Draco was pressing against her, his kisses feverish with longing.

His hands were at the belt of her robes, fumbling with the silken sash, desperate for access to more skin for his lips to explore. And she wanted more, too. Not just kisses, the voice in her brain piped up. She wanted to know him. Who he was now, what he felt, what he dreamed. She believed what he'd said about his muggle-born comment - he held no malice or hatred in his heart toward her parentage. Only resentment that he'd been forbidden from doing… well, exactly what he was doing right now.

Draco had managed the sash and opened her robes, groaning in appreciation as he ran his hands over the bare skin of her exposed torso. More jolts of electric desire surged through Hermione's body, momentarily stifling her inner monologue. But when his hands moved to his own robes, her conscience resurfaced.

"Wait, Draco." She was panting, her chest heaving as she leaned back over her desk. "We can't. I can't."

He blinked, clearing the haze of animalistic lust from his vision. Hermione was afraid he'd suddenly come to his senses and leave again. But Draco ran his thumb over her cheek gently, and smiled, as if he were admiring the deep pink flush of her skin that he'd caused.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, kissing each shoulder again as he wrapped her robes back around her. "I got carried away."

It was a tender gesture that Hermione would never have expected from him, and it made her all the more curious about his feelings. There was undeniable lust here, but something more, as well, which was confounding to her. How could she feel this connection with Malfoy, of all people? It had to be the drinks. Which left her with the decision – should she go home, sober up, and laugh in the morning that she'd drunkenly made out with Malfoy? Or should she follow where the firewhiskey led, where her heart and… other body parts… were longing to go?

"I didn't say we have to stop everything," she said slyly, sitting up so that her face was close to his again. Draco smiled hungrily, one eyebrow raised. Hermione whispered, lips against his jaw - "I just don't want our first time to be on top of a desk."

She hoped it sounded coy and tempting, although she had little experience with being either one. The desired effect seemed to be achieved, because Draco buried his face in her hair and moaned, pressing his hips between her thighs.

When their lips converged again, it felt different. Not a rushed, unstoppable current carrying them helplessly toward sex, but a deep, unhurried kiss, full of wordless emotion. Hermione felt relieved, although the warm glow of desire between her legs persisted. She wanted so badly to save sex for someone she truly loved, someone who made her feel that boundless joy that her parents had for each other. The type of deep, meaningful love she'd never felt before, not even with Ron.

The ever-logical voice in her head reminded her - you've never felt like this before. But Hermione shushed it, and focused on the kiss. What she felt for Draco Malfoy was certainly new and surprising, but it couldn't be the beginning of love. It was just natural attraction toward a handsome man, coupled with her innate curiosity about mysterious people, and maybe some strange reaction to the stress of the marriage law. And firewhiskey. Not love. Right?


	6. The Ball III

Draco Malfoy  
Ministry of Magic Headquarters - Hermione's Office  
July 1999

Draco had never felt more alive, or more confused, than he did at this moment. Not at Hogwarts, not during the war, and certainly not in his self-imposed isolation at the Manor. Hermione Granger, of all people, had somehow lit a raging fire within him, burning with desire, hope, joy… life. Since the moment she approached him at the bar, wine-red robes falling off her shoulders and dark eyelashes fluttering with surprise, he'd felt it building. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years, or maybe ever, that vaguely reminded him of flying on a broom for the first time as a child - stomach twisting, heart soaring, brain clouded with a rush of adrenaline.

Her face was lifted invitingly toward him, eyes closed, lips shining scarlet from their kisses. She was so fucking sweet - the taste of her mouth, the tender fervor with which she touched him, her soft voice. He kissed her again, and wondered at his unbelievable luck. He'd come to the ball in secret, not even knowing why, exactly. The pull of life's gravitational forces, he supposed, an urge to feel something beyond boredom and soul-crushing apathy. And an hour later, here he was, wrapped in the arms of a beautiful girl, pulse pounding, feeling undeniably alive.

She shouldn't be here, either, really. Hermione was far too remarkable to be single in these circumstances. She was the most brilliant witch he'd ever met, and bloody gorgeous, not to mention an excellent kisser. Weasley was a damn fool, Draco thought, and for that, he thanked every god he could name.

It had been another stroke of luck to get her alone, and the fact that she felt the same mystifying magnetic attraction that he did - it was nothing short of a miracle. If he didn't know better, Draco would have thought someone slipped a felix felicis potion in his drink.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked softly. Draco had been lost in thought, admiring her.

"Yes, love." The word came out before he could think, and he watched her reaction carefully. Why had he called her love? He'd never said that to the girls he made out with in the dark corners of Hogwarts corridors. But Hermione didn't seem bothered. In fact, a small smile flashed across her lips.

Draco ran his hands gingerly down from her neck, to her bare shoulders, tawny and golden from the summer sun. Her chest, smooth and shining with a thin sheen of sweat. He kissed her there, just above the black satin of her bra, reveling in the salty sweetness of her skin. They had to take it easy now, as much as he wanted to rip the rest of the clothes from her body and have his way with her right there on top of the desk. Hermione had said no, and he'd seen the thinly veiled fear behind her eyes as she said it. Did she not trust him to stop when she asked? Did she think he would hurt her?

But then, why should she trust him at all? This entire affair was hanging delicately on the tiny thread of faith she must have in him after helping her get away from Weasley. He knew it was going to take more than that to… to what? What was the goal? To convince Hermione to come home with him, to get her naked in his bed? Draco shook his head at his own thoughts. Certain parts of his body were certainly aching for that outcome. But he needed more than that alone.

Their lips met again, a tender kiss that grew deeper with every heartbeat. Draco wound his fingers through her soft curls, cupping her head gently as he leaned her back over the desk. He had to stop thinking so much. His heart and mind were running wild when he should be focused on her. His mouth wandered languidly down her chin and neck. Her back arched within his arms, an involuntary movement that clouded his brain with another wave of desperate lust, forsaking all his bloody thinking.

He pressed his hips against her open thighs, now biting at her neck as she gasped for breath with soft whimpers. It was delicious torture, feeling the warmth between her legs through his clothes, knowing that he couldn't go any further. Her body was moving instinctually, drunk with adrenaline and hormones and firewhiskey, grinding against him. He thought for a split second that he should pull away, shift his body, hide what was happening between his legs - but quickly gave up as Hermione grasped his face in her hands and led him back to her lips.

She knew that he was hard for her, and she wasn't stopping. Draco's heart pounded harder, wondering if Hermione had reconsidered her request to slow down. She hadn't said they couldn't have sex, exactly. Only that their 'first time' - which had made him joyfully imagine this happening again, and again - couldn't be on her desk.

He'd laughed internally, because what place would be more fitting for Hermione than on her great wooden desk, surrounded by parchment scrolls and stacks of books? It was like his schoolboy fantasies come to life. Draco remembered his crush on Hermione - the begrudging type of fascination you get when a pretty girl knows all the answers in class, and then some. But Hermione had made her own feelings clear with a crushing uppercut to his jaw in their third year, and then with the war… that reluctant admiration and secret daydream of kissing her amongst the library shelves had faded into nothing more than a childhood pipe dream.

She'd passed her judgment on him back then, and there hadn't been a thought in his mind that she'd ever reconsider. But tonight, somewhere amongst the drinks and the ballgowns and the candlelight, Hermione must have seen the truth. Draco wasn't the same person she'd known before. Hell, he wasn't the person he'd known before.

And now, locked in an embrace he couldn't have hoped for in his wildest dreams, her hands were roaming over his chest as they kissed. They were separated from his skin by only a thin white dress shirt - his heavy grey robes were long discarded in a heap on the floor. Draco gripped her thighs as her hands continued their torturously slow journey down his body. Again, the strange electricity seemed to hum through his palms, her bare skin setting his own on fire. It was an addictive feeling, one that banished every thought from his brain except: more.

"Hermione, will you come with me? Leave here with me?" he whispered into the skin of her neck. His voice was low and hoarse with desire, unfamiliar even to him. Hermione's hands rested on his belt, toying with the scales of the dragon-hide leather as she stared up at him, thinking.

Her eyes were mahogany dark and fathomless - Draco felt like he was falling into them, waiting for her answer. Letting go of his vise-grip on her thighs, he reached up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. It was absurdly arousing to see her like this, disheveled and breathing hard, with reddened cheeks and sparkling eyes. Hermione Granger was always immaculate, never flustered, never without an answer. So why did her expression now seem so conflicted and hesitant, like a thousand things were running through her mind?

"We don't have to have sex. I promise. I wouldn't do anything without your permission."

She blinked up at him and bit her bottom lip in a way that made Draco stifle a groan of desire. Hermione opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, then shut it again. Merlin, what sweet torment, having her nearly naked in his arms, watching her contemplate. What could he say to reassure her? What could he do to make sure this glorious moment wouldn't end here?

"Draco, what are we doing?"

Hermione was fidgeting with his collar and tie now, all in disarray from their kiss, while looking up at him questioningly.

"We're… kissing."

It was a lame answer, and Draco saw the annoyance painted plain on Hermione's face as he said it. But what else could he tell her? There was no explanation for what was happening here, at least not one that he could put into words yet. Her eyes continued to search his face, though, waiting for more, and he had to try.

"I'm as confused as you are, love. All I know is that I don't want this to end here, in your office. I don't want to go home and wonder what this could have been."

Draco leaned down to her lips again, and tried to pour his jumbled, unsaid feelings into their kiss. There was something between them, something he'd never felt before with other girls he'd kissed. That vibrating, sparkling feeling, that zapped through his nerves and made his stomach twist and heart pound. A rush of blood, a dizzying force, like being knocked down by a wave at the ocean. Maybe this was what muggle drugs were like, he thought.

"You're engaged," Hermione whispered, and Draco's pounding heart seemed to stop still for a moment.

"I can't marry her." He replied without even thinking. Hermione's dark eyebrows raised. "When I'm with her, I feel nothing. When I kissed her, I felt nothing. I thought it was me, that I was broken. But now… how could I marry her when I've experienced this?"

Hermione's perceptive eyes had narrowed.

"But you can't marry a muggle born, either."

Draco sighed, and ran a hand through his tangled hair. How was he supposed to unravel all of this with her legs straddling his hips, her bare skin glowing, her robes laid open across the desk? He ached to take this woman to bed, to kiss her all over and have her writhing across his sheets. It would be just the two of them, entranced by their mutual, unbridled passion, no questions of his parents, or Astoria, or the Ministry. But the fucking marriage law… everything had an implication. Everything was a puzzle, and the solution had a deadline.

"I'll tell them to cancel the wedding, first. No matter what happens with us, I can't marry Astoria."

He felt Hermione's skin twitch imperceptibly at his fiancée's name. It was the same acerbic reaction that his tongue felt, saying it. The poor girl, he thought pitifully. Astoria hadn't done anything wrong - she was nothing more than a scared child. But how could he stand before her in two weeks, look into those icy blue eyes, and tell her he loved her? How could he possibly promise to be faithful if that meant never feeling this again?

His parents would be irate if he canceled on Astoria this close to the wedding, but Draco had no choice. Better to call it off now, to save his young, innocent fiancée the heartache of a cheating husband and years of unhappiness. Marrying Hermione would be a whole different battle. And would she even want to? He may have changed, but his family and his circumstance hadn't. His name hadn't. Kissing in a torrid, secret rendezvous was one thing - could she possibly bring herself to be his wife? The question made Draco's head spin.

"I think we need to… spend more time together. Er – to talk. Get to know each other."

Hermione carefully straightened Draco's cuffs as she spoke, struggling a bit with the tiny buttons. The gesture was familiar, natural - it made his spiraling mind calm. She cared for him. And she was right, as always. They needed time, as precious as that commodity was right now. This puzzle would seem much easier in a few days, he was sure. Once they both had clear heads, not clouded with lust and surprise and alcohol as they were now.

Draco held Hermione's hands as she slipped off her desk perch onto the floor, legs wobbling a bit. He remembered how she'd leaned against him in the ballroom, his steadying hand on the small of her back - the first time a small firework had exploded behind his eyes, pulse rushing loud in his ears, making it extremely difficult to continue his charade of talking to Weasley about elf reports.

"I wish we could just apparate from here," Hermione mumbled, hastily gathering her mass of curls over one shoulder with a sigh. They both straightened their clothes, helping each other button and buckle and smooth rumpled robes.

"Shall we floo?" Draco asked, and Hermione nodded.

"Even if we went out to the street and apparated, I'm afraid I've had too much to drink…I'd splinch myself for sure."

The office went dark automatically as they left the room, and Draco wondered if there was some kind of charm that would give them away, Ministry security monitoring for wayward ball guests. If they were seen now, it would be a dead giveaway - Hermione's flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips, his wrinkled dress robes and, most embarrassingly, his raging erection that he was finding very hard to conceal now that she didn't have her thighs wrapped around him.

They were silent as they walked through the dark corridors, but it wasn't awkward as Draco had feared. Just a wordless understanding that neither of them knew what the hell they were doing, only that they needed to leave, to be alone together with no time limit, no distractions.

Beside each other in the lift, he caught her hand in his. Hermione looked up at him, surprised, her eyes dark as ink and filled with trepidation. Draco pulled her hand to bring her into his arms, holding tight as he could. She was so much smaller than he remembered - or he'd just grown taller. The top of her dark head only reached his shoulder, and without thinking, he leaned down and kissed the top of it. It was the first time in his life he could remember feeling protective of something.

They walked hand in hand to the atrium, knowing full well that if anyone saw them, there would certainly be a scene. Word would spread; someone would tell his parents he was at the ball, someone would tell Astoria that he was holding hands with another girl. And Hermione's situation wouldn't be much better - except for Potter and Weasley, with whom he had a tenuous civility, all of Hermione's friends and acquaintances would absolutely detonate if they saw her with a former Death Eater.

At the bank of fireplaces, Draco grabbed a handful of floo powder from the bowl mounted on the wall.

"Let me go first, just by a minute or so, to make sure the coast is clear. If you say 'Malfoy Manor, east wing' you'll come out in my personal -"

He halted, watching Hermione's eyes grow wider and her blushed cheeks go pale.

"What's wrong?" She shook her head slightly, and dropped his hand.

"The Manor. I can't. I was - during the war…" her soft voice trailed off, and she stared into the flickering fire. Her eyes were filling with tears, reflecting the flames. Draco's stomach seemed to drop into his feet like it was made of lead. Of course. She'd been brought to the Manor, his home, and tortured mercilessly by Bellatrix, his aunt. Everything about the Malfoy family and legacy was wrapped into Hermione's memory of one of the worst days of her life. How could she even bear to kiss him?

"I'm sorry," he whispered, dropping the floo powder back into the bowl. He wanted desperately to hold her, to stroke her hair, to assure her that he'd never let that happen again. But then, he shouldn't have let it happen the first time. Surely there was something he could have done – he should have fought to keep Voldemort out of his home, found a way to save Hermione before they dragged her off, killed her torturers and ended the war right there. The guilt overcame him, and Draco slumped against the wall, eyes closed, fists clenched.

It was the familiar drowning feeling of massive guilt he'd felt for so many months, alone at the Manor. But this time, it was amplified by her, his new lover, the one person who'd spoken to him kindly, the one person to take an interest in him. She'd made him feel alive and hopeful, and what had he done for her? Left her to die at the hands of his family members?

A trembling hand was on his cheek, and another prying open his fist, fingers intertwining gently between his.

"It wasn't your fault." Her voice was small, but firm. "You were raised that way. I know you're different now. I can feel it."

"You deserve better," he said, more sharply than he intended. "Someone who was always on your side. Who has a nice family, a decent past. Someone who can marry you without a massive struggle." She squeezed his hand, and Draco opened his eyes. Hermione's eyes were still wet with emotion, lower lip trembling. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I was selfish, doing all this. I got so caught up in how gorgeous you look, how attracted to you I am, that I forgot who we really are."

"No." She shook her head vigorously, curls bouncing across her bare shoulders. "You think you did this by yourself?"

Hermione let go of his hand and crossed her arms defiantly, her trembling lip turning upward to a smug, stubborn smile.

"I made a choice. I'm not stupid. I took you to my office - I kissed you - precisely because you're a different person than the boy I knew in school. You're a man, with actual ideas outside of your parents' pureblood propaganda. I want to hear about it. I want to learn about this man. And if that means getting over my fear of your bloody house, then I can. I was just hoping we could… work up to it. Go somewhere else at first."

Her voice had the decisive tone of a girl who knew all the answers without doubt. Draco couldn't help but smile. The Granger from Hogwarts was certainly still in there. He wasn't entirely convinced; their pasts couldn't be discounted so easily. But that practical anxiety was taking a backseat to her intense, burning gaze, and his body's continued ache for her.

"Alright. You really do deserve better, but it's your choice, as I have no willpower to spare you. Your place, then?"

Hermione's chin lifted, victorious. He couldn't help it, even though the atrium was wide open and dangerous - he kissed her deeply, cupping her face. Arms uncrossed, she clutched his shirt, pulling him in close. It was an absolute fucking mystery how their kisses seemed to make his doubts and fears and confusion all disappear the moment her lips touched his. A miraculous mystery.

"Grimmauld Place," Hermione breathed, lips still millimeters from his.

Didn't the old Black family home belong to Potter now? Draco watched her grab floo powder and march decisively into the fireplace. So Hermione was staying at Potter's house, and had agreed to marry him if Ginny Weasley didn't? Merlin help me, Draco begged toward the atrium ceiling, if they're more involved than she's letting on, this is going to be a giant bloody mess.

With a flash of emerald flames, Hermione disappeared. An empty feeling of dread filled Draco's stomach. Was he… missing her? The atrium suddenly felt huge and desolate without her there. He quickly grabbed a handful of powder and stalked into the gleaming black-tiled fireplace. Pathetic, he thought with an amused smirk.

"Grimmauld Place." He threw the powder at his feet and the flames leapt up, blazing green around his legs, consuming him. Vision blurred and clouded with smoke, he thought he saw two figures approaching the fireplace, but the black tiles began to whirl around him and he was no longer in the atrium.


	7. The Ball IV

Harry Potter  
Ministry of Magic Headquarters - Conference Room B  
July 1999

It was more interrogation than dance, really. Harry had one arm around Ginny's waist, the other holding her hand at their sides, but they were barely moving, and if they did, it wasn't him that was leading.

"What sort of charm is she putting on the forms, then?" Ginny hissed, bowing her head in close so that her red hair formed a silky curtain between their faces and the outside world.

"It's going to be a spell that prevents lying somehow," he whispered. "You won't be able to sign it unless you answer truthfully."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yes, but what charm specifically? Ugh, nevermind, I'll ask Hermione about it."

She straightened her head up, flicking her hair back behind her shoulders, but didn't let go of Harry. They'd been dancing, if you could call it that, for a few songs now, and it seemed like the tension was building, rather than easing as he'd hoped. His dream of dancing with Ginny and reminding her of how great they were together wasn't panning out.

"I wish you could trust me, Gin." He rubbed his thumb against her back, putting a little extra pressure to bring her body closer to his. The feeling of having her in his arms again was amazing, even with their distressing conversation.

"I trust you, Harry, but I also know you," Ginny sighed. "You're romantic, and committed, and… Ron told me you didn't go on a single date during my seventh year. Is that true?"

Harry shrugged. "That's because it was my first year as an Auror. Ron and I were swamped, rounding up war criminals. I didn't exactly have time."

That was mostly true. They had been extremely busy, although Ron had found time to go visit Hermione at Hogsmeade, staying together in the rooms above the tavern every other weekend or so. But Harry had thrown himself into his work, even on the weekends. Sure, he could have gone out to the Leaky Cauldron while Ron was away and found some one night stand. The idea just didn't appeal to him.

"So why not marry Hermione - as friends - stay busy with your career for a few years, and then marry me when we're ready?"

Harry frowned, and gripped Ginny tighter.

"Why not marry me, we both stay busy with our careers for a few years, and move in together when we're ready?" he countered. The fiery glow in Ginny's eyes was beginning to scare him, but her argument just didn't make sense. Why was she so determined to marry someone else?

"Would you be marrying Hermione as friends, Harry?" she murmured darkly, leading them toward an empty edge of the dancefloor. "Or are you so scared to marry her because you know it would be forever?"

Harry glared right back at her, matching her bold stare. Ginny's muscles were tense and taut - she'd grown even stronger since last time he'd held her. Her freckled face, once round and childlike, had grown thinner and older in just the two months since they parted. Her arms were slightly sunburned from so many hours on the pitch, and her waist was smaller inside the crook of his arm.

It wasn't the same body he'd kissed all over at the Burrow, or admired reverently that night at Shell Cottage last summer, when they'd taken each other's virginity. Although their sex since then had certainly been better, that first, fumbling, tender time was one of Harry's most precious memories. Just after the war ended, mourning the loss of so many friends, they'd had a very carpe diem attitude. Live for now, love each other, make the most of the time they were given.

Now it seemed like Ginny, and most people, had embraced the stability of the new wizarding world. Their lives weren't in danger. Time with loved ones wasn't fleeting. They could wait, save things for later, plan ahead. But Harry had trouble distancing himself from his old life, the life in which he could have been cursed out of existence at any moment. He wanted life to happen now, while it could; he wanted to experience love, marriage, fatherhood. Maybe, in the back of his mind, he felt like he owed it to all those he'd lost.

"If I were to have a child, Ginny," he responded, his voice tight, "Which you know is a possibility, since we can't lie - I wouldn't leave it. So yes. I'm scared. I'm scared that you'll force my hand, and I'll end up never being with you, because you couldn't trust me to let you have your career."

"Well that's just bloody stupid," Ginny said, in a voice a few decibels louder than Harry would have liked. "You only have to do it once for the form. You're obviously planning on shagging her regularly, or you wouldn't be scared."

Her body was still pressed against his, even as she made her accusation. Harry could feel her hipbone jutting into his as he steered her further from the other dancers.

"Gin, shh. Let's go back to Grimmauld. We can talk in private."

Her scowl melted away into a smirk.

"I knew it. I'm going to find my friends, Harry. I'll catch up with you later."

And with that, she peeled herself away from him and sauntered off the dance floor. Harry watched her go, mesmerized by the shimmering of her light golden dress robes, like a snitch that was fluttering away from him in the sky. He suppressed his urge to chase after her; it was more important to show her that he could give her space, let her be with her friends. Plus, she wasn't wrong, so he wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want a platonic marriage - with her, or Hermione, or anyone else.

At the bar, he found Ron, looking a bit haggard.

"Hey mate, I'm glad you came," he said, patting his friend on the back tentatively. Yet another relationship that had been tense this summer. Ron hadn't angrily owled Harry, at least, but he hadn't friendly owled him, either.

"Yeah, it's nice, huh?" Ron said, not turning to face Harry.

"Have you, er, seen Hermione?" Harry asked. It was a complicated situation, to be sure, but he couldn't help that he wanted Ron and Hermione to at least be friendly again. They were his best friends, like two thirds of himself, and the pouting childlike voice within him was begging to have them 'back to normal.' Of course, nothing could be normal now.

"Yeah mate, I did," Ron said, taking another large gulp of his drink. "In true 'Mione fashion, she left immediately to do work. The first time we get to talk after breaking off a year long relationship, she needs to work. During a ball. It's comical, really."

"Oof," Harry cringed sympathetically. "Did you get to apologize before she ran off?"

"Apologize?" Ron sat up straighter. Harry saw a very distinct family resemblance to Ginny, just then. "I didn't get two words out before bloody Malfoy interrupted about some house elf reporting shit that they had to go look at. Besides, she owes me an apology, as well. I was the one getting sacked from my job, and she had a problem with it! A real girlfriend would have helped me out, supported me…"

Harry was hung up on Ron's first sentence. "She left to do work with Malfoy?"

"Yeah, I guess he's still trying to help out the Ministry by being a giant snitch on his nasty friends. Telling 'Mione whether they mistreat their house elves or some shit. Trust me, it was weird."

A trifling twinge of jealousy rang out in Harry's mind - Hermione and Malfoy, chatting at the bar, her sharing about work projects, him offering to help… She hadn't spoken to Malfoy since the war, probably in the midst of battle. What had come over her? Sure, he'd helped out with rounding up his remaining Death Eater buddies, but he was still… Malfoy.

"Anyway," Ron continued, "Ginny told me I should leave Hermione alone. Said it's a lost cause, I should move on. And I think I found the perfect way to do that."

Harry's mind was still fixated on visions of Hermione and Malfoy, hunched over some reports upstairs in her office. Maybe he should go see if they need help.

"Harry!" Someone shrieked, and arms were flung around his neck before he could register who it was. From over the girl's shoulder, he saw Ron's self-satisfied smile.

"You remember Lavender, Harry," his friend said brightly, puffing his invisible feathers. Lavender stepped back, still holding Harry's shoulders.

"Oh Harry, you look so handsome! I swear, all you boys have had such growth spurts this year. And these little beards! SO hot." She affectionately scratched the peachy scruff on Ron's cheek.

"Er - nice to see you, Lavender." The girl was wearing tight, light purple velvet robes, showing off her extraordinarily hourglass-shaped figure. Was that a spell of some sort? He was sure Lavender hadn't been so curvy when they were at school. But then, it's hard to tell anything in school robes.

"You too, Harry. And happy birthday! Let me buy you a drink!"

Lavender's layers of bracelets jangled happily as she flagged down the bartender, enthusiastically ordering a round of drinks for all of them. So this was Ron's 'perfect way' to move on from Hermione? The two girls were nearly polar opposites - Hermione's sincere, studious, loyal personality was a perfect contrast to Lavender, a mildly vapid, bubbly social butterfly.

Ron was admiring Lavender with a dreamy look on his face, and Harry was a little worried that she'd slipped him a potion. But actually, this match made some sense. Ron was always frustrated with Hermione's constant in-depth analysis of every subject under the sun, her rigid, self-imposed rules and routines. Lavender was a free spirit, giggling and teasing, never serious for long. Even here at the bar, she was beaming as she bounced between Harry and Ron's seats, toasting with her pink cocktail, twisting a lock of golden blonde hair between her fingers.

"Hey, you coming, Harry?" Ron had a sort of sheepish grin on his face as he hopped off his barstool and moved to follow Lavender onto the dance floor. The song had changed to something fast and upbeat, and Lavender was bopping gleefully out toward her friends, drink sloshing everywhere.

"Erm, no, I'll stay here for a bit, thanks mate." Harry sipped his drink and made a 'cheers' motion as Ron was dragged away. The gleam of Ginny's golden robes caught his eye from a distance. She was dancing with a group of three other girls he didn't recognize; they must be her teammates.

Harry felt a pang of guilt. Ginny was so happy, dancing like she was totally carefree, hips swaying and red hair flashing in the candlelight of the chandeliers. She was only seventeen. He was so focused on living his adult life, he hadn't been fair to her. Yes, he gave her space and encouraged her to follow her dreams, but he still slipped into letters and conversations how much he missed her, how he wished he could be with her. It had seemed natural to say those things, they were how he truly felt, but he could see now how it felt manipulative to her, a teenage girl with no intentions of growing up faster than necessary.

What was the right thing to do? Harry downed the rest of his drink and asked for another. Was there enough time to change his affectionate habits, show Ginny that she didn't need to worry that he would drag her down? Or should he let her go, let her live out her plan? And if he did that, should he put his own dreams of having a wife and family on hold and wait for her?

The web of options lay before him like a sticky trap – if he made one wrong move, the strand would snap, and certain relationships, the most valued things in his life, would end forever. Ron might hate him. Hermione might resent him. Ginny… Ginny might kill him. Harry sipped his drink and watched the crowd, imagining all the worst-case scenarios.

"Why are you frowning, Harry?" a small, high voice asked, making Harry jump slightly.

"Oh, Luna." His body relaxed as he saw his friend perched on the barstool next to him. She was wearing long white robes that looked almost bridal, with fresh wildflowers stuck haphazardly in her blonde hair.

"Apologies if I startled you," she said, eyebrows raised. "I didn't want to interrupt your thinking, but you looked so puzzled, I had to know if you had a wrackspurt in your head or something."

"I'm alright, Luna, thanks. Just all this marriage stuff."

Harry tried to seem casual. Luna and Ginny were good friends; he couldn't seem too distressed, or Ginny would surely hear about it. Yet another point against him, for trying too hard, being too serious.

"Yes, it's rather distressing. I wish I could help. I hate watching my friends struggle with these decisions."

"You're not struggling?" Harry turned to face Luna, who had been staring out at the dance floor alongside him, her wide aqua eyes fixed and unblinking.

"Oh, not really. Rolf proposed in June, we're getting married next week. I just wanted to come to the party and see my friends again."

Luna gave him a small grin, and Harry noticed the glittering opal on her ring finger, throwing sparks of rainbow fire as she stirred her drink. The idea of Luna coming to the last-ditch mixer ball 'just for fun' made him chuckle. Luna giggled along with him, although she didn't seem sure what they were laughing at.

"Will you and Ginny come to the wedding? I sent her an invitation, but I'm afraid the billywig I tied it to may have gotten lost on the way to Wales. It's a long trip for a little fellow…"

Harry laughed again, though he tried to contain it, as Luna wasn't joking at all. He tried in vain not to picture a tiny blue billywig, wings whirling, struggling under the weight of a parchment letter.

"Yes," he said gently, stifling a playful smile, "That journey is probably better suited for an owl."

Luna blinked at him a few times before smiling. "True. But Rolf's favorite color is blue, so I thought he'd enjoy having billywigs do the job."

It would be a miracle if anyone knew about Luna's wedding, Harry thought, making a mental note to spread the word for her.

"Yes, I'll come, and I'm sure Ginny will, too. Congratulations, Luna. Is Rolf, er, older than us, then?" Harry suddenly worried for his friend's wellbeing; she was notoriously prone to making odd decisions, and it wouldn't surprise him at all if this Rolf bloke was a kind old man, or an uncommonly friendly garden gnome.

Luna's face suffused with a light pink blush, and a dreamy smile spread across her lips. The unmistakable look of a person in love - far away gaze, head tilted - like she was watching a beautiful sunset.

"Yes, he's twenty four," she replied, her voice softer even than usual. "He attended school at Durmstrang because his parents were living in Estonia studying hinkypunks. We met a few summers ago when my father endorsed his mother's essays in the Quibbler - Rolf came by the house with her, to meet us. We've kept in touch ever since. He's a marvelous magizoologist, Harry. You'll like him, I think."

Harry smiled, and although he felt happy for Luna, being so blissfully in love, it also made his heart ache a bit. If only he and Ginny were happily planning their wedding, sending invitations, telling people their love story. Then his thoughts shifted suddenly to the other wedding - the one that hadn't occupied his hopes and dreams, but was approaching quickly nonetheless - to Hermione.

August 15th was only two weeks away. Two weeks to convince Ginny to marry him, or risk losing her forever. Two weeks until he'd say vows - vows that he didn't take lightly - to his beautiful best friend, and take her to his bed.

Luna was still watching his face intently; he was sure a thousand confused and conflicting emotions had just passed across it.

"Definitely a wrackspurt, Harry. You're like a magnet for them."

He laughed again, drained the rest of his drink, and stood from the stool.

"It was good to see you, Luna. I've got to go dance with Ginny. But we'll see you next weekend, yeah?"

Luna beamed. "Yes, yes! I'm so glad you're coming. And happy birthday, Harry."

It took a few songs for Ginny to notice Harry dancing near her - he knew better than to interrupt. Luckily, Neville and some other Gryffindors he knew were also dancing, so he had a cover story if she got angry.

"Harry." Her tone had a hint of warning, but her breath smelled strongly fruity, and her eyes glinted with a tipsy giddiness. Ginny danced her way over to him, one hand in the air, the other clutching a bright pink cocktail in a tall glass.

"Oh hey, Gin," he said brightly, as if he'd just noticed her there. She laughed, seeing right through his charade. Next thing Harry knew, Ginny had her back pressed against him, swaying quickly to the beat of the song. Her silken red hair swished across his face and chest. It was incredibly tempting to put his hands on her gyrating hips, to pull her closer to him and move against her to the rhythm. But Harry resisted.

"Ginny, you're proper sloshed," he laughed in her ear, breathing in the scent of her perfume, a crisp aroma like spring grass and fresh laundry.

She tipped her head backwards and smiled at him. Even upside down, Ginny was stunning. Her eyes were a warm honey brown, her freckled cheeks flushed crimson from dancing and drinking, her little pointed chin cocked sideways in her playful, stubborn way. Harry wanted to spin her around and kiss her breathless, right there in front of everyone.

"Sloshed enough to dance with you, darling," Ginny shouted over the music. "One of the most important things the Harpies have taught me so far - work hard, play hard!"

Somewhere nearby, teammates whooped and cheered at Ginny's declaration. The song changed again, a thumping, seductive beat that Harry had no idea how to dance to. The girl in front of him sure did, though. Ginny pressed harder against him and slid her body down his, causing Harry to literally bite his tongue to keep from groaning.

"Ginny, I-" he tried to lean into her ear, to tell her about Luna's wedding, maybe try to apologize for earlier, but she whirled on him, hips pressing into his insistently.

"Please, Harry. Lighten up. It's your nineteenth birthday. Can you just dance with me a little bit? Be teenagers while we can?"

Although he had a hundred comebacks spinning through his head - hadn't he asked the same thing of Ginny when he'd first greeted her tonight? - they were all muted by her taking his hands and placing them on her rocking hips. Their dance seemed overtly sexual to Harry, but no one seemed to give them a second glance.

Ginny had her arms draped over his shoulders, her face so close to his that their lips could have touched any second. The tension was palpable. No other girls or thoughts of marriage crossed Harry's mind - Ginny was the only thing he could think of. She was the beautiful golden snitch that had been flitting just out of his grasp, finally now in his arms, and he never wanted to let go.

"Keep dancing with me like this and you might earn yourself a birthday kiss." Ginny had a mischievous smile as the next song came on and Harry continued swaying and holding her. He willed his hands not to stray.

"I was hoping we could celebrate like we did last year," he said, leaning close to her ear.

It was a risky move. Last year's birthday celebration had been a quiet dinner with Ron and Hermione in muggle London, followed by a very not-quiet night alone with Ginny at Grimmauld Place. The first time they'd had sex with no one there to overhear, and the first time she'd allowed him to go down on her. What Harry lacked in experience, he'd made up for in eager enthusiasm, and eventually he had Ginny gasping and screaming his name as she gripped his head between her slender thighs.

The memory seemed to wash over Ginny there on the dance floor, catching her breath and lighting a brighter fire behind her warm eyes.

"Even if it came with no promises? No commitment?" Ginny looked at him sideways, skeptical. Harry's heart pounded. She was actually considering it. He wanted to tell her yes, that he loved her no matter what, that he'd always love her, even if she married someone else. But it was too much. He had to tread carefully.

"As long as it comes, that's all I want," he said, grinning with the double entendre.

Ginny laughed, and kissed Harry's cheek. The feeling of her lips on his skin sent goosebumps down his body.

"How can I say no to Harry fuckin' Potter on his birthday?" she asked no one in particular, shaking her head. "But you should know, I already took my contraceptive potion today. Just in case you were plotting anything."

Ginny laughed again, tossing her hair about as she danced, a teasing smirk on her face. Harry hadn't even considered that, an accidental pregnancy. Maybe it hadn't crossed his mind because Ginny had always been so vigilant about her daily potions that Harry never even had to ask. Those tiny glass vials, vaguely hourglass shaped like a woman's body, filled with light pink bubbly liquid. That single swig that stood between him and his dream of Ginny Weasley being the mother of his children.

"C'mon," he said, taking advantage of her cheerful drunkenness, leading Ginny off the dance floor toward the atrium.

"Wait," she said, breathless and stumbling after him. "I need to find Ron, tell him we're leaving."

The two of them stood near the edge of the room, surveying the crowd for red hair. Ron was tall, and Lavender was loud - they shouldn't be this hard to find.

"Maybe he took her to the Burrow," Harry suggested, eager to leave. He didn't care about saying goodbye to Ron, as selfish as it seemed.

"He wouldn't dare," Ginny giggled at the thought. "He'd never hear the end of that. Mum is still firmly Team Hermione."

Hermione. Why hadn't she come back from working upstairs with Malfoy? Had the blond git soured her mood so much that she went home without telling Harry? He hoped not, selfishly – all he needed was an hour or so alone with Ginny, empty house echoing with her moans, to remind her of how it felt when they were together. And there was no way Hermione would hear that kind of lovemaking between her best friends and then marry him, just a fortnight later, if it came to that.

"Earth to Harry," Ginny waved her hand in front of his face, tugging at his robes. "I said, we can find Ron in the morning. I haven't seen Hermione either, you know. Maybe Lavender made her jealous and she decided to take Ron back after all."

Crossing the atrium toward the bank of fireplaces, Harry and Ginny saw none other than Draco Malfoy, alone, and leaving through a floo.

"What did he say?" Ginny asked, cocking her head toward the place where Malfoy had just gone up in green flames.

"I couldn't hear, we're too far. Malfoy Manor, I'm sure." Harry led Ginny around the central fountain, not giving a single shit where Malfoy was off to, but wondering what his leaving meant about Hermione. Could they have been working upstairs this whole time?

"No, I'm pretty sure it was something else." Ginny had a puzzled look on her face, no longer happily drunk, but alert and curious. Bloody quick metabolism, Harry cursed. Ginny never stayed drunk long.

"You go first, Gin," Harry handed her a fistful of floo powder and nudged her toward the fireplace. "Grimmauld Place. I'll be right behind you. And then I'm going to do very naughty things to you. No strings attached."

He added the last part quickly, and saw her smile again. After she'd gone flaming away in the lime-colored blaze, he moved hastily into place, counting to ten so as not to land on top of her in his eagerness. He tried to slow his heart rate, imagining Ginny waiting for him on the sofa of his living room, that sneaky grin on her face, her legs spreading open with his birthday gift between them...

But when Harry landed in his living room fireplace, it was a scene of utter chaos. It was impossible to take in everything at once.

Ginny was just before him, laying on top of someone - a man. They were both struggling to stand up, but Harry had just appeared in the midst of their tangle of legs, and they must have fallen again. Ginny was yelling something incomprehensible, her voice frenzied and furious.

In front of them, Harry saw Hermione standing, frozen, hands in fists gripping the skirts of her dark red gown. She was staring at the couple on the couch - a girl, naked, arms crossed over her chest, shrieking at the top of her lungs, straddling a man. Was that Ron? Harry didn't have time to look, he had to help Ginny up from the hearth, disengaging her from - oh Merlin, it was bloody Malfoy.

"What are you doing in my house?" Harry demanded, but Malfoy didn't even glance at him; he was beelining to Hermione, gabbing her arm. Harry searched for his wand inside the pockets of his dress robes, but the alarm-like shrieking of the girl on the couch, who he felt sure must be Lavender Brown from her screams alone, made him unable to focus on which damned pocket he'd stashed it in.

"Get away from her!" he bellowed at Malfoy, hoping to buy some time so he could find his wand and hex the damned snake. Malfoy was leaning close to Hermione now, who had torn her eyes away from the sofa and was looking at him with eyes squinting in pain and distress, saying something Harry couldn't hear over the mayhem. Malfoy seemed to whisper something in Hermione's ear - a curse no doubt. Harry closed the distance between them, finally brandishing his wand.

"I said leave her alone!" He poked the tip of his wand into Malfoy's side, but was immediately distracted by Ginny, yelling something at Ron, who was still lying naked underneath Lavender, his eyes as wide as saucers, his face pale and horrified.

"Yes I'm sure," Hermione said to Malfoy, "Just get me out of here."

Before Harry could react, Malfoy had his arms around Hermione in a surprisingly close and protective pose - one around her waist, one cradling the back of her head, which was buried in his chest - and they'd apparated away with a pop.

Ginny was at Harry's side in an instant, still yelling.

"Fucking Malfoy! Where did he take her? How did he get in here? Why didn't you STOP him, Harry?"

His mind was still reeling, and Harry struggled to make a sentence out of what he'd just seen.

"I think - er, I was going to, but it looked like they were together on purpose. I heard her ask him to get her out of here. Then he side-alonged her."

"Malfoy?" Ginny screeched. "Hermione Granger just let Malfoy side-along apparate her wherever he likes? Not bloody likely. She's confunded, or pissed drunk."

The redhead wasted no time on more theories; she whirled back on the couple on the sofa. Harry cringed in anticipation, knowing that Ginny was about to do her best impression of one of her mother's famous howlers.

"And YOU! What are you thinking, coming here, where Harry and Hermione both live, to have sex on the bloody sofa right next to the floo? You can CLOSE the floo, ya know! Save us all from having to see this!"

Ginny waved an angrily flapping hand at Lavender, whose screams had turned to whimpers and little gasping sobs. She still had her arms crossed over her chest, though they didn't cover much – she was bare from head to foot, and Harry had to avert his eyes from the temptation to look closer at the small patch of blonde curls between her legs.

"Get dressed, Lav," Ginny said, her voice full of revulsion and maybe a little pity. She tossed the trembling blonde her purple dress from the rug where it lay in a heap. Lavender moved to dismount Ron, but he grabbed her thigh before she could move it.

"Wait," he pled, panicked. "Don't move til they leave. Please."

Harry groaned as he realized exactly what Lavender would expose if she rose off Ron at that moment. Definitely something Ron would rather his best friend and baby sister didn't witness.

"Oh. Merlin. No." Ginny growled, and looked like she might puke or faint. But she grabbed Harry's hand instead, gritting her teeth, and led him up the stairs toward the bedrooms. This should be cause for celebration, or at least relief that Ginny wasn't leaving in fury, but Harry couldn't be happy right now. He was too confused. Hermione and Ron and Malfoy and… what had just happened?


	8. The Grotto

Hermione Granger  
Malfoy Manor Grounds, Wiltshire, England  
July 1999

It took longer than usual for Hermione's body to steady itself after the dizzying lurch of apparition. For a moment, she thought they'd landed in the midst of pitch black darkness, until she became aware of her face pressed firmly into Draco's chest, blocking her vision. She breathed in deeply, his rich scent washing over her as senses returned one by one. Amber, smoke, firewhiskey, leather.

"I'm sorry, love."

A low voice rumbled, vibrating her cheek as it lay against his chest.

"I was afraid to apparate anywhere else. With it being side-along, and my focus less than stellar… I didn't want you to get hurt."

Hermione raised her head slowly, still gripping his robes. The first thing she saw was his face - eyes wide and worried, golden eyebrows creased together, full lips pressed into a straight line. Strands of platinum hair were blowing across his eyes, but he didn't brush them away.

Just over his shoulder, a huge building loomed. It was made of a warm brown stone that shone in the moonlight, with multiple wings stretching across the landscape, dotted with columns and statues and balconies. Malfoy Manor.

Hermione shivered, even though the air was stifling. Even the slight breeze was balmy and thick, whispering around them like a giant's breath.

"We won't go in. We can walk around the lake."

Draco kept holding her close, as if he were scared she was going to fall over, or maybe that she would bolt. Hermione nodded dumbly, still a bit in shock, and uncharacteristically speechless. Draco stroked her hair as one would soothe a child after a nightmare.

Well, it had been a nightmare, truly. Not that she was jealous or wanted Ron back in any way, but to floo into her living room expecting silence and be greeted by his animalistic grunting as Lavender Brown bounced enthusiastically on top of him… they hadn't even noticed her, not until Ginny knocked Malfoy over inside the fireplace and they started yelling at each other.

Even then, Hermione had stayed frozen in an out-of-body reverie, wondering if the scene before her was Ron finally losing his virginity, or if he'd been shagging girls 'properly' ever since they split. It was Draco's arms around her, asking if he could apparate with her somewhere, that had finally snapped her to her senses.

How was it that her childhood enemy, someone who'd loathed her for years, had ended up saving her from all that? He was staying by her side, protecting her. And most bizarrely, Hermione felt completely safe in his arms.

Their scorching hot make-out session in her office seemed like ages ago now, the memory blissful and blurry, like something from a secret dream. But the man from her dream was there, real and solid. It took a few minutes of standing in a silent embrace before Hermione loosened her white-knuckled clutch on Draco's robes and stepped back. Her heart rate had slowed to a less thundering pace, and her breaths were coming easier.

They were on a great rolling lawn behind the manor house, dotted here and there with ancient, gnarled trees and patches of sculpted shrubbery. Not a twig out of place, she thought, marveling at the carpet of green grass below them - perfectly uniform as far as the eye could see. The gentle hills dipped and rose all the way to the horizon, and in the center, an irregularly shaped lake lay gleaming. A stone bridge crossed over the water at a narrow point, and the lake continued on out of sight.

"This is beautiful," Hermione breathed, taking Draco's hand as he led her down the hill, toward a dirt path that hugged the edge of the lake.

"Thank you. The grounds are much more interesting than the house, anyway. I'd have gone mad this year without them."

Draco pointed out some white structures dotting the gardens, almost glowing in the moonlight - temples, he called them. Small marble buildings dedicated to different Greek gods and goddesses, decorated with pillars and statues and bronze plaques. A remnant of a fascination of one of his great-great grandfathers.

They talked about mythology, about constellations, and Hermione's disdain for astrology and divination. They talked about Hogwarts, carefully sidestepping the topics of their house rivalries and the War. Draco asked about Hermione's do-over seventh year; he wanted all the details. When she did a terrible and embarrassing impression of McGonagall's graduation speech, Draco laughed, and the sound of it shocked Hermione in the happiest way. Had she really never heard him laugh? It was a sharp, bright sound that seemed to make her feel suddenly warmer.

The night was already hot - how was it worse here in the country than in muggy London? Hermione's hair was sticking to her neck, and the thick silk of her gown felt stifling. If she'd been anywhere else, with anyone else, she would have insisted on going home. But she found herself wishing this night would never end, sweaty silk or not. They walked and talked and laughed for hours, although it felt like only minutes to Hermione.

"Do you want to… talk about it?" Draco asked after a quiet moment, catching her hand in his again, which sent those enchanting electric sparks scurrying up her arm.

"About what?"

He looked at her pointedly. "That… scene. At your house."

"Oh."

The path had curved over a knoll, and was now leading gradually down into a copse of twisted old oaks, their branches stretching across to form a canopy. The air was completely still down here, and smelled richly of forest - warm leaves, moss, sun-baked dirt. Grimmauld Place and its drama seemed a world away.

"I guess in a way I'm relieved. After I left, when I went to live with Harry in London, Ron would send me these angry letters about how I ruined his life, and mine, too. I'm glad he has a chance to end up happy. I don't feel jealous either… well, not of him and Lavender. Maybe I'm just envious that he found someone."

She felt Draco's hand twitch in her grasp, but his eyes stayed trained on the path. It was so dark in this patch of forest, she couldn't see the expression on his face. When he spoke, his voice was low and flat.

"You'll find someone. There's no way someone as amazing as you will stay single long."

The lump in Hermione's throat returned with a vengeance. Draco was mad. She hadn't meant to offend him. But the fact of the matter was that Ron and Lavender could get married tomorrow, and people would be happy for them. Hermione was currently holding the hand of one of the most despised wizards in England - and an engaged one, at that. It would take a miracle for this to have a happy ending.

"I didn't mean -" she choked out, but her voice cracked and her throat seemed to close. Draco squeezed her hand.

"I know. It's different."

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, trying to slow her breathing again. "It's just scary sometimes. We don't have very much time. And this is so... unexpected..."

The trees overhead parted, and Draco's face was again illuminated with silver moonlight. His mouth was grim, tight, his brow furrowed.

"Maybe we should just enjoy tonight," Hermione offered, attempting a light and happy tone. "We're supposed to be 'getting to know each other,' right? I told you all about my last year, it's your turn."

Draco looked down at her with a smirk that distinctly reminded her of the sly schoolboy she'd known before.

"I hardly think the story of my year will lighten the mood. But I'll try not to be too depressing."

In his soothing, calm voice, he told her of the weeks after the War ended, when his father was in Azkaban awaiting trial and his mother was a useless, nervous wreck. Draco had to go back to Malfoy Manor and pick up the pieces of his life - most of the staff had been killed or cursed, and the whole manor was in shambles after becoming Voldemort's private residence and torture chamber. There were still salaries to be paid, public apology statements to be written, muggle cover ups to execute.

Draco had wallowed in guilt and shame and bitterness, as he had knowingly fought on the wrong side for years, feeling helpless to escape his fate as a Death Eater without getting himself and his parents killed. With a sorrowful look at Hermione and a squeeze of her hand, he recounted his first trip to the Auror offices last summer to see Harry and Ron, to offer them his services as an informant. They hadn't believed him until his first couple of tips panned out, then they called him in regularly, and even let him fly recon missions with them. Hermione could tell from the shift in his tone that these months were the bright spot of his year, working and flying and trying to do his penance.

But then in the winter, Harry had told him he wasn't needed any longer. And after that, Draco had just been… here. He'd allocated as much of the family finances as he could to rebuilding efforts. He'd sold properties, invested in new business, and made donations of very generous sums to the families of the dead without a care for his own fortune. By the time his father had returned on parole, the Malfoy family name was only worth half of what it once was. Draco said all of this with a half smile that showed his dimple.

"Spending half of our fortune still leaves him with an obscene amount, but it didn't go over well," he said with a chuckle. "After that, I was banned from all financial dealings. So I spend my days swimming in the lake and reading, mostly. Avoiding my parents. And getting fat from the house elves fretting over me."

Hermione laughed out loud. She doubted if there was an ounce of fat on this man.

"Don't worry, they're free. We pay them. The elves. I remember that was always one of your causes." Draco was smiling warmly at her, as if he hadn't been the very same person to make her life a living hell during her SPEW days. It gave Hermione a jolt that he could feel warm and kind about her activism now. Could a person really change that much?

It seemed that Draco had seen a dark cloud of old, forgotten resentment pass across her features, because he stopped walking and turned to her. They were at the crest of a hill now, and the thick air had a different smell - something like electricity. Ozone. Hermione looked up and saw the billowy clouds gathering into towering thunderheads.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking Draco in the eye. "It's hard to reconcile… who you are, and who you were. I keep forgetting."

He stared her down, his silvery eyes searching her face, or maybe memorizing it. Hermione shifted her weight and resisted the urge to look away from him.

"I don't mean it badly. You've had such an ordeal, with Voldemort and your family, and now this year, losing the life and friends you knew… I feel stupid for going on and on about my year at Hogwarts. I'm sorry."

Draco shook his head. The warm wind was picking up, ruffling his platinum hair.

"Don't be sorry. I loved hearing about it. I'm the sorry one. I've been inside my head for so long, trying to find who I really am, I forget that I kept up the façade of a pureblood prat for a horrifyingly long time. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could go back to eleven years old, and be your friend. Do the right things."

Hermione took both of his hands in hers. Draco Malfoy turning out to be a decent - no, good - person was the most unexpected, inexplicable thing she'd ever encountered. His voice was kind, not taunting. He held her hands tenderly. For Godric's sake, he'd kissed her like he was positively in love. How could she ever describe this to her friends?

"Draco I - I believe you. And I forgive you. I'm just grateful that you are who you are now. We can't change the past, but maybe… maybe we can change our futures."

His handsome face broke into a grin. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it, and leaned in to kiss her instead.

The instant his lips landed on hers, every nerve in Hermione's body seemed to light up, and every hair stood on end. The sky around them was suddenly as bright as daylight with the crack of a lightning bolt, followed immediately by a growl of thunder. Hermione shook slightly, from the thunder and the pure adrenaline of their kiss. Draco slipped his hands around her waist and gathered her in close.

All the heat of their earlier kiss, which Hermione had worried would be impossible to recreate, was back tenfold. The lustful drunken fervor had been replaced with real attraction and appreciation for each other. The sweet, heavy tension of knowing that this kiss meant much more than the last one crackled around them like a spell.

By the time their lips parted, Hermione was breathless and panting. Draco pressed his forehead against hers, and smiled.

"It's raining," he laughed, running his thumbs over her cheeks as if he were wiping tears. Hermione looked up, the cool drops peppering her face. She hadn't even realized it while they were kissing, but her hair was already damp, and the drops seemed to be coming faster. If they stood there much longer, they'd both be soaked.

"Follow me!" Draco said, and took her hand as he led her quickly down the path toward the stone bridge she'd seen in the distance. Their pace quickened as the rain grew heavier - soon it was pouring down and they were running, laughing, hand in hand. Draco was holding his dress robes over her head awkwardly, trying in vain to protect her from the sudden downpour. She hoped he wasn't trying to run all the way back to the Manor house like this; not only would she be drenched long before they got there, she doubted she could keep up with his athletic strides much longer.

"Down here."

Draco turned sharply after they crossed the bridge - off the path and down a narrow stone staircase nearly hidden by flowering bushes, toward the banks of the lake. But rather than leading to the water's edge, the stairs curved away and opened into a small, hidden chamber. Draco murmured a spell and lit his wand tip with warm light.

Hermione looked around in awe. The small room was carved into the bluff of the lake, nearly level with the water, with a large opening framing the view. The shimmering silver water stretched before them, rippling with raindrops in a hypnotizing pattern like static on a television.

The opposite wall of the chamber was even more intriguing, with statues of two Greek gods, separated by a trickling veil of water, which collected into a rivulet carved into the dark marble floor, and out into the lake.

"This is the grotto," Draco said with a smile. "That's Persephone, emerging from the underworld. And her mother Demeter, welcoming her back." He motioned to the two statues.

"This is amazing," Hermione breathed, "The whole thing is a work of art." She ran her fingers across the rough hewn walls, and under the steady drizzle of the waterfall between the goddesses. Draco watched her with an amused, proud expression.

"It's one of my favorite places," he said, taking her hand again. With his wand still lit, he cast drying spells over Hermione's hair and dress, and over himself.

"We can wait out the storm here, if it's okay with you."

Hermione nodded. She was still transfixed by the statues - they were larger than life, but so realistic that she wondered if some evil Malfoy in centuries past had just petrified real humans and turned them to marble. Behind the waterfall, a young woman reached out, her expression pained and eyes squinted slightly, like she was seeing daylight for the first time in years. Behind her looked like the entrance to a cave - the stone wall became craggy with stalactites and faded into darkness.

"The Underworld," Draco whispered ominously, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"Is it a real cave?"

He nodded, but his words were muffled by a huge boom of thunder that seemed to shake the whole room. Hermione jumped, startled, and Draco smiled as he looped his large arms around her shoulders tightly.

"I've got you," he murmured into her hair.

Hermione found herself shaking again, but not from fear. She looked up at his face, his satisfied little half-smile, the earnest look in his eyes. Who was this man? This person she'd met at the ball tonight - this was someone she could fall in love with. He was kind, protective, intelligent, and stunning. Her heart was pounding thinking of the possibility of a future with him. But he was also Draco Malfoy. And engaged to someone else.

"Draco," she began, trying to keep her voice steady. "Would you really call off your wedding?"

"Yes," he answered, without hesitation.

His face didn't betray him as much as hers did, she thought. If he was nervous or doubtful, he didn't show it. Maybe that was a Slytherin thing.

"Do you think… that is… I," Hermione struggled to string her words together as Draco ran his fingers up and down her bare arm, trying to calm and comfort her. "I don't want to waste your time. Or my own. I know we left the ball in order to… chat. And get to know each other. But I don't want to get my hopes up if this is just a one night stand. In any other circumstances, I'd be happy to take it slow, but -"

Draco leaned down and kissed her bare collarbone, then her neck, then her earlobe, effectively cutting her off.

"This is not a one night stand," he said surely, his voice a low rumble that lit a fire deep inside Hermione's stomach. She closed her eyes to focus on forming words again.

"We only have a month before the deadline. Is it possible? With your parents, and your… fiancée? Will they - "

Draco had turned from her to balance his lit wand in the open hand of the Demeter statue, and draped his now-dry dress robes over the ledge of the grotto's opening. Hermione watched him, trying to ascertain how he was feeling, but his handsome face stayed serene and satisfied looking.

He came back to her, in the middle of the room, his hands now free to hold both of her shoulders as if he were going to shake some sense into her.

"We have a month. We can figure it out. I promise."

Somehow, his simple words had a calming effect on Hermione's jangling nerves. He seemed so sure that they could make it work. She shook her head slightly, her mind boggled by the fact that she even wanted it to work. With Draco Malfoy. If you'd told her he was available twenty-four hours ago, she'd have laughed. In fact, she probably would have made a rude comment about him not deserving a wife, or heirs to carry on his Slytherin bully legacy. And now…

She hadn't really known him, Hermione assured herself. She hadn't known how much he'd changed. He wasn't just a Malfoy anymore, wasn't just a Slytherin. He was a complete person, with his own opinions, his own regrets, his own path in life. It was wrong of her to discount him as a lost cause before. She, of all people, should know better than to judge someone based on their blood status.

Draco tucked her hair behind her ear, scanning her expression. How could he be so calm? He had a fiancée, a whole wedding planned. His parents… She imagined that convincing the Malfoys to accept her as a daughter in law would be nearly as hard as convincing Harry and Ron that she wasn't under the Imperius curse.

"I suppose if a Gryffindor and a Slytherin have a mutual goal, it's basically unstoppable," Hermione laughed, her voice shaky.

"Not just any Gryffindor and Slytherin," Draco grinned mischievously. "We're Malfoy and Granger. We could turn the entire wizarding world upside down to get what we want, if we want it badly enough. A month is more than enough time."

Hermione laughed. It was true. She just couldn't believe that this was actually what he wanted, who he wanted. Her mind was whirling, trying to keep up with her heart.

Draco kissed her again, slowly and softly. When she returned the kiss, leaning slightly into him, he was encouraged. He placed his hands around her waist and turned, lifting her swiftly onto the ledge of the opening. Her open legs were once again level with his hips, just as they'd been on her desk a few hours ago. As they kissed, Hermione wondered what this scene would look like from the outside - a small glowing cave just at the lake's edge, with the silhouette of a couple barely visible through the gray sheets of rain.

Inside the grotto was warm and dry, and Hermione felt like she could spend eternity in here happily. Draco's kisses were sweet and unhurried, his hands roaming slowly over each part of her, from her neck to her waist to her legs. As his fingers lightly kneaded the bare skin at the tops of her thighs, Hermione shivered with arousal and pressed her hips against him. He pulled his lips away, his eyes lit with an internal fire, and grinned at her hungrily.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I didn't mean…"

Draco shook his head to shush her. He gripped her thighs tighter and lowered his mouth to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. The feeling of his lips there made Hermione's eyes roll back with pleasure.

"I don't want to rush you," Draco murmured into her skin, "but believe me, there is nothing you could do right now that would offend me. I want you, in every way possible. Forever."

His last word was almost a growl. It sent a lightning bolt of happiness and warmth down Hermione's spine, right down between her legs. She pulled his face up to hers, and kissed him deeply. Why did he make her feel this way - uncontrollably aroused and acting purely on instinct and feelings? It was so unlike her, but it wasn't at all unpleasant. Although it might have been more convenient if she'd felt this way with Ron, she laughed internally. It was so night and day that she found it hilarious she'd ever thought she loved him romantically. Now she knew what it was supposed to feel like. It felt like being in a hurricane, like lightning and heat and whipping wind and tidal waves.

She moaned involuntarily as Draco kissed the hollows of her throat. She unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his pale, muscular chest. Her hands fluttered across the warm skin, savoring the feeling of his heart pounding. Was he nervous? Or just excited?

She suddenly wished that they were in a bed somewhere, cozy and pressed against each other. Damn Ron and Lavender for spoiling Grimmauld Place. Although she had to admit, walking in the gardens and kissing in the grotto was much more romantic than her dusty old bedroom.

"Do you want to go to the house?" Draco whispered, his voice rough and breathy. He must have read her mind about wanting a bed. But the thought of going into Malfoy Manor, actually inside it, made Hermione feel like her throat was closing up. It would be so dark and shadowy, with their footsteps echoing down the stone halls - she shook her head.

"I want to be here," she whispered back, scattering kisses across his chest. In their glowing little cave, their refuge from the storm.

As their kisses grew more insistent, Hermione allowed her hands to wander down his torso, to where his muscles rippled in the most tantalizing V shape. Between her legs was a throbbing sensation like she'd never felt before, not even using the vibrating wand or reading the steamiest romance novels. She dared to dip her hand even lower, to graze her fingers against the strained fabric of Draco's dress pants. Her heart thudded even stronger.

Her tentative fingers spurred him on; though his hands remained gentle, his touch was fire, and he was lighting up every inch of bare skin he could access. Finally she felt him grasp the silk sash at her waist that held her dress closed, and ever so slowly, he pulled it down, until the fabric of her dress slipped fully off her shoulders and down onto the ledge.

Raindrops sprinkled her arms and hair as Hermione leaned back, relishing Draco's ravenous expression as he took in her exposed body. She could hardly believe her own boldness when she reached back and unclasped her bra, provoking a carnal moan of appreciation from Draco, who dove for her bare breasts as if he would devour them. The throbbing filled her whole body now, and as he closed his mouth around a nipple and flicked his tongue, she thought she might come without any touching down there at all.

Her arousal lent her more bravery, to unbutton his pants and slip her fingers under the waistband. Draco moaned again, and rose from her chest to kiss her lips before wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting Hermione off the ledge to stand on the floor.

"Do you want to stop?" he whispered, running his hands tenderly down the sides of her body, following the curve of her waist and hips.

Did she want to stop? It was the last thing on her mind. Hermione knew, in the logical part of her brain that normally ran the show, that she should say yes. That she should be content with kissing him for tonight and re-evaluate things in the morning, when they were sober and rested and fully dressed. That she should wait to have sex with him until she was sure. But that was the thing - she felt sure.

"No," she said firmly, and kissed him again. It was the green light he'd been waiting for, apparently, as his hands on her hips tightened and his lips met hers with deliciously bruising pressure. She hooked her fingers again beneath his waistband, now slung low around his narrow hips, and inched it downward until he was fully naked, pressed hard against her hip bone and torso.

Draco paused his kissing to lean over and snatch his wand from Demeter's outstretched hand. Whispered spells lifted his dress robes and Hermione's gown from the ledge. Following the flicks of his wand, they unfurled and settled on the floor like blankets. Her heart skipped a beat - did he mean for them to lay there? Well, she shouldn't act so scandalized, she'd just taken his pants off.

"Try it out," he murmured playfully, his dimple flickering with mischief. Without taking her eyes off of his striking naked form, Hermione knelt down gingerly on the pile of fabric, expecting to feel the hard marble underneath. But it wasn't there. The surface under her felt soft and springy as a mattress. She had to remember to ask Draco about that spell - maybe it was similar to her expandable enchanted bag.

All thoughts of spells were wiped from her mind as Draco joined her on the floor, grasping her face in the palms of his hands and kissing her lips. At long last, she was able to lay back, to stretch her body out next to his and feel every delicious inch of his bare skin pressed up against her own. Despite the cool gusts of wind blowing in from the storm outside, there was a thin sheen of sweat on both of their bodies that made them slip against each other like silk.

Thunder rumbled in the distance like a celestial avalanche, but Hermione didn't jump or shudder. She was entranced by Draco's kisses moving steadily down across her chest and stomach, leaving a trail of tingling skin that she traced with a dazed finger. He reached the lace edge of her underwear and looked up at her, his eyebrows raised and questioning. She smiled nervously. It was the very last stitch of clothing, the one remaining barrier between them.

As she sat up and slipped the lace down her legs, Hermione laughed internally at the version of herself who'd picked those underwear out before the ball - that earlier self would have never, ever guessed that she'd be taking them off hours later, in a grotto somewhere in Wiltshire, a lifetime away from her bedroom in London. And this man who lay next to her, watching her remove them - this man she'd spent the night getting to know, who sent electric sparks through her body and ignited her in every way possible - that old Hermione would _never_ have expected him to be there. All her years of dreaming of when and where she'd have sex for the first time, who it would be with… this was better than any fantasy.

Draco was touching her now, tracing his fingertips across her thighs and between her legs with feather-light strokes. She impulsively kissed the top of his head, overcome with affection. He smiled up at her, his gleaming blond hair swinging across his forehead, then dipped his head back down to plant a matching kiss between her legs, right on the aching, throbbing spot that made her thigh muscles twitch and spread further apart. Hermione had been propped on her elbows, but her arms promptly gave way as Draco's kiss deepened to firm strokes of his tongue. Her head flopped back onto the soft ground, and she was once again thankful for Draco's brilliant spellwork.

Her legs shivered and shook as he applied soft, sucking pressure. Hermione wasn't sure if the thunder outside had grown louder, or it was just her own heartbeat pounding in her ears as she squirmed and gyrated beneath him. She could hear herself moaning and whimpering as if it were an out of body experience, but she was powerless to stop. Draco was using his fingers as well as his mouth now, and Hermione felt sure there was some kind of magic going on down there, because she'd never felt anything like this.

With a final, gasping cry, she tumbled over the edge of an orgasm that felt like a stomach clenching, heart pounding free-fall. Every muscle in her body contracted and then relaxed, until she felt like a puddle of pure liquid satisfaction. When her senses returned enough to speak, her voice was nearly a purr.

"What in the world…" Hermione cracked an eye open and saw Draco watching her, his lips reddened and gleaming, with the most smug grin. "I - you - how did you -"

"Shh."

Draco slipped his arm under her head and she nestled into his chest, still drunk with the aftershocks of pleasure. He kissed her; timidly at first, maybe waiting to see if she'd object to tasting herself on his lips. She did not. Their kisses intensified again, and Hermione's wandering hands found their goal. Draco trembled beside her as she grasped him, and she felt rather sly as she kissed the spot on his neck that had made him grind against her earlier. It had the intended effect - his hips jerked forward and head lolled back as he moaned.

But Draco wasn't lost in pleasure for long. His eyes met hers, and a hand stilled her.

"I just have to make sure," he panted, "I know this is all… surprising. I just have to make sure you're okay."

Hermione frowned, puzzled.

"Am I okay?"

He kissed her with a smile. "If we do this. Are you okay. I just have to hear you say it."

"Yes Draco," she whispered, resuming her stroking, "I am not just okay. I'm feeling incredible. There's nowhere in the world I'd rather be than right here."

He moaned again, and she wasn't sure whether it was her hands or her words that pleased him more. Somewhere deep in her brain, Hermione knew she should have taken that opportunity to tell him that it would be her first time, but the animalistic part of her that was in control was afraid that would stop him, and she didn't want to stop for anything.

She encouraged him with kisses as he positioned himself between her legs, breathing heavily as if holding himself back was a great physical effort. The sweat made his pale skin shimmer as if he were made out of marble like the statues next to them. He brushed against her opening and made her shiver with anticipation. She nipped at his bottom lip, urging him forward.

"Promise me," he pled quietly into her ear, "Promise you won't come to your senses and regret this tomorrow."

She stared into his eyes, dark and dilated with lust, and ran her fingers over his sharp, stubbled jaw.

"I promise. As long as you swear this isn't just a one night stand, I could never regret it."

"I swear."

His voice was hoarse and strained. She reached a guiding hand down between them and led him into her, watching his face with a mixture of pride and suspense as she saw his earnest expression melt with bliss.

The pain between her legs was fiery, but not unbearable, and it was eased by watching Draco nearly fall apart at the mere feeling of being inside her. He moved slowly as he kissed her, and if he noticed that she was in pain, he didn't let on. Hermione focused her mind on the pleasurable feelings instead of the burning - the friction, the fullness, the taste of his lips. Before long, the pain had subsided, and only pleasure was left in its place.

His pace quickened, each deeper thrust making little groans escape her open mouth. Then he slowed down, biting his lip, obviously trying to hold back.

"Draco," she moaned, circling her hips in time with his movements. He rocked back onto his knees, staying inside her, and hooked an arm effortlessly under her leg. The new angle was deeper yet, and a fresh wave of searing pain stilled her momentarily as her body accommodated. But she was so aroused, it didn't take long for the pain to shift into pleasure, as if it were all a continuum and she couldn't tell what she was feeling anymore.

His thumb was on her clit, rubbing circles in time with the thrusts of his hips. That's why he held back, she thought, he wants me to finish again. Everything felt engorged and tender after he'd gone down on her; she could feel her pleasure building quickly as he rubbed his steady circles. Hermione closed her eyes and tried to sink into that feeling. The throbbing, hypersensitive tension inside her, the slick wetness of it, filled so deeply with him.

One last circle of his thumb sent her careening into another orgasm. But while his mouth had been like no orgasm she'd ever had, this was like a different beast altogether. It wasn't freefalling - it was like she exploded from the inside outward. She felt her muscles clench around him, rippling and pulsing as the warmth spread through her body like a sunrise.

It was too much for Draco to bear. He dropped her leg and fell forward over her, kissing and moaning and stroking her as he moved quickly to his own completion. Hermione smiled languidly and ran the tip of her tongue down his neck, feeling him shudder and plunge into her as deep as he could.

He collapsed at her side, gasping for air and whispering her name. There were no words for the golden, shimmering happiness that welled inside her as she snuggled into the crook of his arm. A warm, sparkling satisfaction - physical and mental.

Outside, the black rain whipped sideways across the lake. It must be nearly morning, Hermione thought sleepily, the pleasure and exhaustion clouding her brain. Draco had pulled her gown from beneath them and wrapped it over her with a strong, protective arm. Their enchanted robe-mattress felt like the softest feather bed, and the relentless beating of the rain on the water was a lullaby.

As Hermione drifted to sleep, she heard Draco whispering words she didn't understand - was it French? Her brain couldn't process any longer. All she knew was his warm arms around her and their legs tangled together. That was her world, now.


	9. The Cellar

_ Draco Malfoy _

_ Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England _

_ August 1, 1999 _

The dream was so good, he was reluctant to open his eyes. A small boy with a mop of light brown hair was running across the Manor grounds, his carefree laughter echoing in the hills. It was as vivid as a seer's vision - the colors almost garishly saturated, the sounds crisp and clear. She was at his side, her hand warm and solid in his own. 

As his consciousness rose slowly to the waking surface and the dream world faded behind it, Draco fought to go back.  _ Please, _ he begged, though who he was begging, he didn't know. The universe? His own brain? Some ancient god of dreams and visions?  _ Let me spend one more minute there,  _ he asked.  _ Let me go back with them. _

Even more striking than the verdant grass or cerulean sky or even the giggling boy, was the preternatural sense of calm contentment within the dream. Draco had felt peace, for once. But beyond that, as he'd walked beside her and watched the boy skip and laugh and sing, he'd felt pride. He had done something right in his life, made the right choices, followed his own path, and found himself there. 

It was an emotion that Draco Malfoy had never been acquainted with. Until last night.

_ Last night _ .

His senses were returning one by one, and with each, he prayed he wasn't imagining it. Her warm body pressed against his, the sound of soft, steady breathing, the smell of her hair. He cracked one eye open and to his relief, found his vision obscured by a mass of dark brown curls stirring softly in the wind. 

A gentle breeze was blowing in through the grotto’s opening. It smelled of rain and wet earth and grass. The sun was shining on the lake’s surface, and Draco sat up to try and judge the time of day by it. 

Nearly straight overhead - they needed to get back. His parents probably wouldn't even know he was gone, but Hermione's friends would surely have every Auror in the Ministry looking for her by now, especially since they'd seen Draco side-along apparate her last night. 

Hermione must have felt him sit up, as she began to stir, stretching and blinking in a way that reminded Draco of a cat being woken from its nap. 

"Good afternoon, sleepyhead." He smoothed her hair, and watched her strong brows furrow together as she processed his words.

"Afternoon?" Hermione sat up, letting go of the silk gown that had been covering her. Draco's heart skipped a beat, seeing her naked torso in the light of day. It was just as perfect as he remembered. 

"Oh, everyone's going to be mental," Hermione moaned, rubbing her face with her palms. 

"C'mon," Draco said, rising slowly and holding his hand out to help her, "Walk to the house with me and we can floo you home. Unless you want some breakfast first?" 

Hermione took his hand, but at the word 'breakfast,' Draco saw her eyes flick downward for just a split second. Naughty. Though he was certainly game for that type of breakfast, too. 

"Can't I apparate from here?" 

She wrapped her dress around her, modestly overlapping the sides like a bathrobe. Draco took his time finding his pants, laying in a rumpled heap on the floor where they'd dropped last night. 

"Sorry love," he said in a voice that he hoped was calm and reassuring, "The old Malfoy wards are a bit overprotective. I could side-along you again, but it might be… better… if we didn't draw attention to this just yet. My parents will suspect something if I’m coming and going so much." 

Hermione's eyes narrowed shrewdly. 

"How long are we going to avoid  _ attention _ ?" 

Draco didn't bother with his shirt or robes, instead crossing the room and wrapping his arms around the skeptical girl. She was stiff for a moment, then seemed to melt against his chest, leaning in and sighing audibly.

"Not long," he murmured, "I'll tell them today. I'd just rather be the one to broach the subject. Strategically." 

He felt Hermione's shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. 

"Ever the Slytherin," she teased, smiling up at him.

Merlin, she was gorgeous. He'd been stunned by her last night at the ball, with her hair draped elegantly over her shoulder, her gown sweeping behind her, the picture of grace. But this morning - it was enough to stop his heart. Her rich brown eyes were glowing with an inner light, as was her skin. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, her curls a wild halo of chestnut. 

Hermione blushed at his plainly adoring gaze, and buried her face in Draco's chest. 

"Fine," she said, her lips brushing his skin and sending goosebumps down his arms, "We'll go to the house. But this better not be a ploy to get me in your bed. I really need to get home before my friends come knocking down your gate." 

Draco laughed, catching Hermione's face in his cupped hands and pressing his lips to hers. 

"I'd love to watch them try," he chuckled darkly. 

\----------

They emerged from the Grotto into the blindingly bright light of midday. The pair squinted and rubbed their eyes, and for a moment, Draco’s vision blurred into the scene from his dream - her by his side, a boy shrieking with laughter running ahead of them, the birds chirping joyful songs he’d never noticed before. Then he blinked, and the scene vanished again, though the woman beside him remained. As did the lump in his throat.

Hermione walked slower than her normal brisk pace - Draco wondered if she was sore, but decided not to flatter himself. She must be nervous. He held her hand tightly as they approached the manor house. The sun was dazzling, the summer air crisp and clean after the storm, but he could feel Hermione begin to tremble as if it were freezing. Draco fought the waves of guilt and shame washing over him.

She was tortured here. His family had nearly killed her. And now she was marching up the steps at his side, her face a mask of steely determination. She was so brave. 

"This way." 

He led her up a narrow back staircase, never loosening his grip on her clammy, shaking hand. They stuck to service stairs and seldom-used corridors, although with only two house elves left, they weren't likely to encounter anyone. Draco's wing was far removed from his parents' - he had faint memories of his early childhood, wandering the halls at night, trying to find his mother before a governess realized he was out of bed and deposited him back in his own wing of the house. 

Behind a set of grand oak doors was his bedroom, although it was the size of a small flat. The decor was minimal - dark wooden bookshelves, an emerald velvet sofa, a marble fireplace, a wizard chess board, and his imposing four poster bed. Hermione visibly relaxed as he closed the door behind them and locked it with a spell. 

"Your room is exactly how I imagined it," she said with a smile, crossing over to his bed and skimming her hands over the dark silk sheets. 

Draco chuckled wryly. "I'm that predictable?" 

His bedroom, like the rest of the manor, used to be much more ornate. In the past year he'd pared it down to only the furnishings he needed, and in a fit of rage, he'd even removed the art from the walls - family portraits that now sneered at him. A blood traitor. 

If only they could see him now, bringing home a muggle-born witch. Backing out of his arranged pureblood marriage. Draco swished his wand subtly at his side, casting a protective ward that would alert him to anyone coming down the hall. Hermione was running a hand slowly and tenderly over the leather-bound spines of his books near the fireplace. Her reverence for them made Draco smile.

"If you want to shower, or change… my clothes will be too big, but you're welcome to take anything you can find." 

He gestured toward the door to his en suite bathroom and absurdly large closet. Hermione peered in, but didn't move.

"I really better get back to London. I don't want them to worry." 

His heart thudded with anxiety. Hermione was seriously trying to leave as quickly as possible. Was she having second thoughts? Did being inside the Manor suddenly remind her that Draco was still a Malfoy?

"Just ten minutes," he offered, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. "Stay for ten minutes. I can't bear for you to leave yet. Besides, they're probably all sleeping off hangovers in London. We have a little time." 

Hermione considered for a moment, her dark eyes boring into him as if she could see his motives if she just looked hard enough. But Draco's motives were no secret, at least from his perspective. He wanted her -  _ needed _ her - by his side.

He flopped onto the sofa and motioned for her to join him. How did her body fit so perfectly into the crook of his arm, nestled against his chest? She must have been made for him, or he for her. 

Even as his head lolled back, muscles slowly unclenching under the pleasant weight of her leaning into him, an angst-ridden voice in the back of his head was scolding.

_ You don't deserve this. _

_ She's going to come to her senses. _

_ Once she talks to her friends, she'll never come back here.  _

_ You'll cancel the wedding and be left with no one, which is exactly what you are worthy of. No one. _

It was the same voice that had kept him in self-imposed house arrest for months. It was the voice that had forced him to interrupt Hermione's sweet kisses last night to check and double check that she was sure. 

But she  _ had  _ been sure. She knew who he was - both then and now. And she said she forgave him. Their shared, whispered promises were the truth, not the torment of this inner demon of self-doubt.

"Draco?" 

Hermione was looking up at him again, watching him lost in thought. He'd been stroking his fingers up and down her arm absentmindedly.

"Yes,  _ mon coeur?"  _

"What's our… plan?"

A plan. It was something Draco had been racking his brain for since he'd first seen Hermione at the ballroom bar. 

"I thought Gryffindors didn't need plans," he teased, twirling a curl around his finger. "I thought you all operated on your courageous gut instincts?"

Hermione scoffed.

"Seriously, Draco, if we're going to pull this off, we're going to need a bit of your Slytherin scheming. You said you were going to speak with your parents 'strategically.' So… what's the next step?"

Truthfully, Draco had no idea. He had to speak with his father. He had to call off his wedding to Astoria. But all he wanted was to stay here on the sofa with Hermione, hands in her hair, feeling her soft breaths on his chest. He knew she could hear his heart racing at the thought of parting ways. 

"How about we take the afternoon to… introduce people to the concept. Your friends and my family. Then we can meet back up this evening, if you're okay with it. Maybe at the Leaky Cauldron? I can't imagine Potter will be too keen on me spending the night at Grimmauld Place."

Hermione snorted. 

“Well, he may go to Wales with Ginny. I know he wanted to take a long weekend from work. Why don’t you owl me this evening so we can decide where to meet?” 

Her tone was decisive, and reminded Draco of the small, bossy girl who’d kept Potter and Weasley in check all those years. 

“Yes, love. Good idea.”

They were quiet for another moment, Hermione apparently satisfied with their scrap of a plan. They’d see each other again in a few short hours. But the part Draco was dreading was the time in between. 

“Draco?”

Those doe eyes peered up at him again, her tone softened. He kissed her forehead in answer. 

“What were you whispering last night as I fell asleep? Was it French?”

His hand stilled over her hair mid-stroke. She’d heard that? Her eyes had been closed and her breathing deep and slow, a dreamy smile playing on her lips. He was glad he hadn’t used English to promise her the Earth and Heavens, to promise her his soul and body, to confess and pray and hope and plead.

“Yes,” he said shakily. “Just sweet nothings. French seemed more appropriate. Softer.”

Hermione was suppressing an amused smile, her eyes crinkling happily. He could feel her thoughts - Malfoy, softly speaking words of love against her bare shoulder, murmuring poetry into her hair - it beggared belief. 

“I’ve always been like this on the inside. I’ve just never let anyone see it. My disguise as a regrettably nasty git was my security blanket, I suppose.” 

She nuzzled deeper into his chest and placed a kiss against his ribs. 

“Thank you for letting me in,” she whispered. 

He wanted to kiss her - he really wanted to throw her on the bed and kiss her all day long, all over her body - but the knots in his stomach were growing tighter, thinking of the day that lay ahead. Surely it would show in his face.

Hermione suddenly straightened, eyes wide and concerned.

“Your heart is pounding, Draco.”

Just then, a loud  _ POP _ announced the apparition of a house elf right in front of their sofa. Hermione seemed to freeze, horrified. He slipped one hand over hers, hoping to reassure her, despite his own lungs suddenly feeling void of oxygen and his stomach flipping upward to his throat. Damn house elves, completely oblivious to locked doors and protective wards.

“Master Draco,” Ferny announced in her squeaky voice, “Your parents request your presence in the east sitting room immediately.” 

Oh, if Hermione could hear his heart  _ now. _

“Ferny, what do they know?”

The elf’s rod-straight formal posture relaxed a little. He saw her giant eyes flick toward Hermione, but her training prevented her from commenting. 

“Master and Mistress know that Master Draco went to the Ministry Ball last night,” Ferny admitted, grimacing. “I promise Master Draco, I didn’t tell them! I prepared your dress robes like you said, I didn’t say nothing to Mistress or to Romy.” 

Draco leaned forward, elbows on knees, holding his head. He watched from the corner of his eye as Hermione reached out and stilled Ferny’s wringing hands. 

“Ferny, this is Hermione. Hermione, Ferny the house elf,” he sighed. Hopefully his kindness to the elves in the last year would pay off, and she wouldn’t announce Hermione’s presence to the entire house before he could. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Hermione said politely, though Draco saw a slight tremble in her hand as she held it out to Ferny. 

“Fern,” Draco said slowly, carefully, trying not to betray his racing heart, “Did my parents ask you to report back once you spoke to me?”

The little elf nodded solemnly. 

“Did they  _ specifically _ request that you tell them if there was anyone with me?”

Ferny frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. Draco and Hermione let out a breath simultaneously, and exchanged a glance. 

“Alright Fern, please tell them I’ll be right there, and please do not say  _ anything _ about Mistress Hermione here. She’s a… surprise. Tell them I’m alone. This is very important, darling. Can you do that?”

She nodded again, fidgeting slightly with the hem of her baggy, sage green dress. 

“If they ask me, I… I will disobey…” Ferny’s batlike ears twitched nervously.

“No!” Hermione stood suddenly, startling both Draco and the elf. “Don’t disobey. Draco, she’ll have to punish herself on our account! It’s unconscionable. You’re going to tell your parents anyway, right? Why should poor Ferny have to cover for us?” 

Drago sighed, running both hands through his disheveled hair. Hermione’s brown eyes were fiery, her hands balled into fists, and for a moment, he thought she might punch him again. If he hadn’t been so frightened, he would have kissed her breathless. 

The giggling, blushing, drunkenly flirtatious Hermione from last night had a wonder to behold. But this - the fierce, stubborn, moral Hermione, with her wild hair and flushed cheeks - was the girl he’d fantasized about for so many years. He could kiss her up against the bookshelf, and pretend they were in the Hogwarts library; run his hands over her -

“Draco!”

He blinked rapidly. Ferny was hopping from foot to foot, biting her lip, obviously feeling uncomfortable with lingering here when she’d been ordered to report back. Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly, urging Draco to do something.

“Alright Ferny, don’t lie. But don’t mention her unless they  _ specifically _ ask, please. I’m coming right now, just stall a bit if they start asking questions, I’ll be there right away.”

The elf’s expression was pained, but she nodded again, and popped back out of the room. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said softly, standing and taking her hands in his. “I am going to tell them, I just thought I could do it on my own terms. But you’re right, Ferny shouldn’t suffer for it.”

Hermione’s hard expression softened, and she leaned her forehead onto his chest. 

“I understand,” she murmured toward the floor. “I wasn’t quite ready either. Last night feels like a dream, I don’t want it to be over.” 

“It’s not over.” Draco stroked her hair, and kissed the top of her head. “Will you wait here for me? I’ll be quick with them. Then I can come back and show you the floo.”

She looked up at him with a smirk. 

“You really think they’ll let you walk away after you admit that you were at the Ministry ball last night? Have you met your parents, Malfoy?” 

He chuckled darkly. She saw right through him. 

“I just want to kiss you again,” he admitted with a trademark shrug. Internally, he felt anything but casual. She couldn’t leave now. He needed her.

Hermione regarded him with a small, lopsided grin. 

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m leaving. We can kiss again tonight.”

Her tone was deliciously bossy. Draco caught her chin and lifted her face to his.

“We can kiss again in five minutes,” he growled against her lips. 

Her breaths came quicker, hot on his chin, and Draco felt a little thrill of satisfaction. She closed her eyes to kiss him, but he let her go and stalked away. Better to keep her waiting - then maybe she’d stay put. 

He re-locked the bedroom doors carefully behind him, and walked swiftly down the corridors. Hermione’s absence from his side made him feel empty and apathetic. He should be thinking about strategies for approaching his parents, he knew, but all Draco could think of was how quickly he could get back to her. 

At the door to their sitting room, he tried to gather himself. His clothes - the white shirt and charcoal pants from last night - were definitely a mess. His hair was a platinum bird’s nest. And he was sure he had lipstick marks somewhere, though as he swiped his hands over his face and neck, they came away clean.

Just then, he heard a frightened squeak from behind the doors - Ferny. With a flash of rage, he burst the doors open with wandless magic and strode toward his parents. 

Lucius was in his oversized armchair, holding the house elf at wandpoint, a bored scowl on his face. Narcissa turned to Draco as he approached, a white-knuckled grip on the arms of her chair. The sitting room was practically a replica of the Slytherin common room; as he walked, Draco stared down at the emerald tiles shining darkly under his feet, not daring to look up at the sneering Malfoy portraits in their gaudy silver frames.

“Draco. Lovely of you to join us. Finally,” Lucius drawled. He didn’t lower his wand. “I was just asking this elf about your condition, since you were so very… unhurried.” 

“My  _ condition _ is perfectly fine, Father.” Draco tried to match his superior, sarcastic tone. It was the only way he’d gain the upper hand.

“Very well.” Lucius poked Ferny’s tiny chest with his wand as he lowered it. “Stay nearby. If he refuses to answer questions, we might require you again. Draco, sit.” 

He motioned to the armchair where Narcissa sat. Draco rolled his eyes as his mother jumped up and stood obediently behind Lucius. 

“I don’t need to sit,” he insisted. “Yes, I went to the Ministry ball last night. I was bored. I don’t see why it requires a bloody inquisition.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows raised. “You are  _ betrothed _ ,” she said tersely. “Why would you even-”

Lucius cut her off with a sharp glance over his shoulder. 

“Draco.” His voice was as cold and smooth as ice. “Regardless of your relationship with Astoria, you must consider the reputation-” 

Now it was Draco’s turn to interrupt. 

“I don’t have one.” 

He rather enjoyed seeing the blood suffuse that stoic, pale face. Once upon a time, his father’s rage had been Draco’s waking nightmare. Every measly breath had been with regard to his father’s wishes; every choice dictated by what would please him. But that was over, now. Draco had many waking nightmares, but Lucius’ temper no longer ranked. 

“Don’t have  _ what, _ ” his father growled. 

“I don’t have a relationship with Astoria. How would I? You’re the one who arranged this whole scheme, you’re the one who keeps inviting her to dinner, I’ve spent all of five minutes alone with her.” 

Draco focused on his breathing. The sitting room was dark, the heavy curtains drawn - you couldn’t tell, from here, that it was the most beautiful summer day. Ferny was polishing an ebony vase in the farthest corner, though she kept looking over her shoulder. 

“Astoria Greengrass is a beautiful, elegant,  _ pureblood  _ girl,” Lucius said through clenched teeth. “You could not hope for more, Draco. You should be groveling at my feet for finding you such a match. It was no easy task, after all the embarrassments our family has suffered recently.”

Draco’s lip curled in distaste. 

“Embarrassments? Like having the losing side’s symbol tattooed on us permanently?”

His mother cringed and looked away. After the past year of bitter arguments and biting comments, they were both well aware of Draco’s opinions on which parts of the war were embarrassing. And before the war. And, in fact, his entire existence. But he couldn’t fight them on that right now. He had to get back to Hermione, waiting in his bedroom. 

Draco pressed his lips together to hide his smile as he thought of her, surely examining his bookshelves. Would she be surprised at the amount of muggle works, the Bronte and Dickens and Chaucer and Shakespeare? Would she smile at his ancient, dog-eared copy of  _ The Winter’s Tale, _ in which he’d long ago traced over every mention of the beautiful queen’s name - Hermione - in silver ink?

“Regardless,” he continued, his eyes trained on his father’s stony face, “You’re wrong. I can certainly do better than Astoria Greengrass. And I will.” 

The room was silent and still; not even the portraits moved. Finally, Lucius blinked rapidly in disbelief. 

“Is this your way of announcing to us that you’re going to renege on your betrothal?”

“Yes.” 

The response was instinctual, if not very elegant. It was in the open now. He’d leave them alone to process this before giving them any more information. He didn’t need to talk to Astoria right this minute. What he needed right this minute was Hermione, and her soft lips on his, and the sweet smell of her hair, like vanilla and sandalwood and warm autumn air. The mere memory of it sent his heart racing, pumping blood toward his groin. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said firmly, “I was in the middle of something. I’ll contact the Greengrasses later today. You can accompany me, if you wish.”

Draco turned on his heel to walk out, but heard an instant  _ crack _ from behind him. The drawing room doors slammed shut with a bang, and simultaneously, the scalding electricity of a  _ petrificus _ spell hit the small of his back. Instead of anger, or fear, Draco’s only thought as he fell was Hermione. He wasn’t going to be back in time. Dammit.

The sharp tip of a shoe dug into his ribs as Lucius flipped Draco over onto his back. His father’s face loomed over him, plastered with the familial sneer of disgust.

“You are my son and heir. I cannot allow such a lapse in judgment. You  _ will _ marry Astoria. This family will fall no further into shambles.”

Draco’s teeth ground together as he tried with all his might to open his mouth and yell. His father was a powerful wizard, but Draco wasn’t the child he once was, able to be punished however his parents saw fit. He could fight. He would stun them, get to his room, grab Hermione, and run. He didn’t need this bloody manor or even his family name. They could live in hiding. As long as they were together.

“Lucius,” his mother whispered sharply, unmoved from her position behind the armchair. 

His father held up a single hand to silence her objections. With his other hand, he flicked his wand and Draco rose off the floor, floating in midair. His stomach lurched. He’d expected some level of outrage at his rebellion. Maybe he’d been careless with how he announced it. But this… this was beyond anything he could have predicted. 

In childhood, his punishments had been cruel and protracted rather than physically painful. Lucius had his own special brand of emotional terrorism, favoring the silent treatment and icy glares. Once, when Draco was nine, he’d befriended the son of a servant, and the two of them had accidentally left a large purple stain on the rug in the drawing room while trying to brew a very amateur dogbreath potion. In turn, Lucius had forced Draco to watch as the boy’s mother tried in vain to vanish the stain, sobbing, before being fired and thrown out of the Manor with only the clothes on their backs.

Petrifying his son and levitating him through the house was certainly not in Lucius’ usual cruelty repertoire. Maybe Azkaban had made him a little insane. Or maybe he was just desperate and sloppy.

As his motionless body was led through the sitting room doors and down the corridor, Draco began to panic. Hermione was just a few halls away, relaxing in his bedroom, waiting for him to return. And stupidly, he’d rushed out of the room without showing her where the floo fireplace was. How could he have forgotten? He’d been so sure of himself, so distracted by teasing her with an almost-kiss. 

Maybe Ferny would go get her. He couldn’t signal the elf - couldn’t even look sideways to see where she was - but maybe she would realize on her own that Hermione needed to get out of the Manor as soon as possible. After all, Hermione had been so kind to her, shaking her hand and making sure she didn’t have to lie for them. 

But where were they going? His father’s long strides were crossing the grand foyer, his shoes clicking on the flagstones. Draco could only stare upwards, powerless. It was a nauseating feeling. He heard the quicker steps of his mother somewhere behind them, practically jogging to keep up. Then they were in another corridor, then a dark stairwell, then a narrow passageway. The ceiling was lower now, closer to Draco’s face, and the smell was damp and musty.

_ The fucking cellar. _

His body seemed to burn with pent up, impotent rage. His father was really going to lock him up, block his magic, and try to force him into this blasted marriage. How far would he be willing to go? Imperius his own son to say vows? Because Merlin knew Draco wouldn’t say them of his own free will. Not now. A single tear rolled out of his unblinking eye and down to his ear.

The flames of rage that licked at Draco’s nerve endings were making the spell wear off faster than Lucius anticipated. There was an uncomfortable prickling feeling in his toes and fingers, and Draco knew that within moments, he’d be able to move. But he didn’t try - he just laid there, staring upward, watching Lucius approach from his periphery. With a thud, Draco's body hit the dirt floor, and he tried with all his might to stay stiff as a board, not to give away any hint of voluntary movement.

“Elf!” Lucius snapped. 

Both Ferny and her sister, Romy, apparated into the room with twin  _ pops _ . Draco watched their frightened expressions as they saw his petrified body laying on the ground. His eyes watered at the urge to blink - he could move his eyes now, then. He wondered how long it would be until he could grab his wand. 

“Stay out of this room,” Lucius ordered the elves. “Draco is being kept safe down here. You may deliver food under the door once a day, but do not come in here, on pain of death."

Draco's fist twitched. He knew his father wouldn't hesitate to kill a house elf - he'd seen it done before. Hopefully these two would have the sense to follow orders. The last thing he needed were more deaths on his conscience. 

While Lucius' back was turned, Draco tried his arm. Still immobile. Fingers were stiff, but he could bend them. How much longer?

"Now. My son returned from his little outing before midnight last night," Lucius drawled icily, not speaking directly to anyone in particular. "However, he is still wearing his dress clothes this morning. So I believe that a thorough search of the house and grounds is in order, if we're to determine what has caused him to suddenly abandon all obligation and propriety."

_ Hermione. _

He'd brought her into a death trap. Of course he had. How could he have thought this would have a happy ending? He was a Malfoy. His kind weren't destined for warmth and love and laughter. The rage rushed out of Draco like someone had pulled a plug, and was replaced by freezing cold sorrow. Sorrow and guilt.

He had to protect her, at least. As his father stalked toward the door, Draco slipped an aching hand into his pocket, stiff fingers clutching the very tip of his wand. It took only a split second to decide what to do. 

If he tried to stun his father and missed, the door would slam shut and Hermione would be trapped, innocent and oblivious, as Lucius marched straight to Draco's wing. But if he could warn her somehow, tell her where the floo is, she had a chance of escaping.

Draco had tried hundreds of times to cast a patronus, with zero luck. But, he reminded himself, he'd never in his life been as happy as he was last night. He clenched his eyes shut and thought of her. Wide brown eyes, so earnest and open like she'd never had a single selfish or malicious thought in her life. The way her brow creased when his words worried her. Her hair in all it's morning-after glory, smelling so familiar, like something he'd dreamed for decades. The way her nose wrinkled when she laughed. Her lips. Her thighs.

In one fluid motion, he pulled his wand out and pointed it toward the closing door.

" _ Expecto patronum _ ," he whispered, his voice raspy with emotion. "The floo, two doors down to your left. Go now." 

A stream of silvery white smoke shot from his wand, barely forming into a shape before shooting over Lucius' retreating shoulder. Draco closed his eyes, exhausted, and waited for the retribution. But instead of a sharp kick or the sting of a spell, he heard the heavy thud of the wooden door, and the clink of locks. Had his father even seen the messenger that flew past him?

He could only hope that the patronus made it to her in time.


End file.
